When I first met the ocean, I was scared of what it could do to me.

I placed my toes in the waves and smiled when they whispered

we will never hurt you.

We played that way for a while,

I, testing the ocean,

the ocean, testing me.

Soon I was brave and waded up to my knees.

You're cold, I told the ocean and shivered.

No matter, the ocean replied. Come deeper, child.

I was frightened by the way it urged me on

but I clumsily stumbled ahead, courting the freezing waters

and enjoying the chills I got when the seaweed tickled my calves.

Deeper I waded. The water was black and I

sucked in my breath when it lapsed against my stomach.

Do not be afraid, the ocean said, undertones

of anger fluttering through its powerful

(persuasive)

voice.

Deeper and deeper I waded until the water

was a collar around my throat. I could see the shore

in the distance but the ocean

made my movements weak and sluggish. I was no fish;

I was a mere, stupid girl who was now in

over her head.

Just as my nose and mouth submerged,

as the salt greedily met my eyes,

I remembered that I could not swim.

The ocean laughed as I drowned, as bubbles

leaked from my lips.

No one knew where I was, no one would find my body.

Would I wash up on some beach only to be

devoured by seagulls?

I grew still, petrified with fear,

and the ocean forgot me.

The waves pushed me onto the beach and I gasped like a trout out

of water, surprised that I was alive.

You bore me, the ocean grumbled and I was happy, so happy.

Good! I shouted. I'll never trust you again! You betrayed me! You lied!

The waves massaged my feet soothingly.

It was a mistake, child, they giggled. Forgive us.

Never!

I turned and ran up the beach. Was staying out of the water the only way

to keep from drowning?

I never did return to the ocean and, child,

if it speaks to you,

do not listen.


a/n: This is not about the ocean
but about someone who I thought I could trust.

I was wrong.