At first, I didn’t even know how to swim. Couldn’t see the shore. Was sure the wide sea would quickly overtake me, and swallow me whole.
I don’t know when I began to acclimate: to stop struggling against the current, and to swim with the waves until my feet finally found sand.
It’s been almost nine months. I know now that I’ll never leave this ocean, but I take some pride in the fact that I’ve begun to learn its rhythms.
High tide. Low tide. Days that are calm and peaceful…and nights when some faraway storm sends murky waves that crash angrily against the shore.
I work hard to stay afloat. But I can’t predict when I’ll be yanked below the surface by an undertow: scared and disoriented, kicking and clawing for one gasp of air.
It’s infrequent, these days, that I’m buoyed by the hope that anyone will find me here, much less join me. It’s a lonely place, which I hadn’t foreseen.
But I swim on. What else can I do? This ocean is my home…even if it was chance, not choice that put me here.