Salt Water

Here there are two skies. One great expanse, seemingly endless, stretches above me, and its twin, reflected in the sea. Both are a pale blue, but the latter is glassier and glistens in the sunlight. I plow through the water in my kayak.

With each stroke, the muscles in my arms and shoulders flex and release the stiffness they had acquired from immobility. The movement is refreshing, and I sink into a simple rhythm, creating a sort of figure eight as I raise one side of the paddle and push the other one into the water — back and forth, back and forth. I watch my paddle disrupt the calm and turn the water on itself — creating brief storms of upset liquid each time I thrust the kayak forward.

Sometimes, I attack the water too violently and splash myself with salt water. It propels upward and sprinkles down on my legs, which rest awkwardly in the hollowed plastic of the kayak. At first, I flinch from the chill of the water droplets but then find it refreshing against my hot skin that has been absorbing the harsh sunlight.

The smell of the sea, fishy and saline, is pungent but not overwhelming. It envelops me, as does the emptiness of the space, and the wind pushes back my hair. The heat of the sun beats down on my skin, which clashes with the cool breeze that glides across the water. The delicate wind amplifies the feeling of the cold water splashed up on my legs, creating a pleasant balance of warm and cool.

Onward — I want to distance myself from land. I head out away from the college towards a more open area past Indian Key. The water gradually changes from a deep navy to a more turquoise green as I approach a sandbar. I peer into the water, vainly looking for my reflection, but my shadow is easier to see. It dauntingly glides across the sand and seaweed. Small fish and other mysterious shapes drift by, teasing my curiosity, and I realize how little I know about the ocean. Like a woman tempting a man with a low cut blouse, the sea shows me glimpses of secrets, but never exposes all its mysteries. I pass the sandbar and enter into deeper water.

Today it is calm, and the quietness is eerie. I hear only the gentle swoosh of my paddle pushing the water, and the cry of a distant bird.

I am alone. The vastness of the sea is overwhelming, as is its obscurity. The water disguises itself as its brother, the sky, to hide all its secrets. From the surface, it appears just as empty as the sky only heavier and glittering in the sunlight. On the horizon, I see civilization — cars, roads, bridges — which ignores me, as if in a different world. I imagine the people in their cars, probably listening to music or talking to a fellow passenger. They are surrounded by technology: private bubbles of the advanced world which is full of distractions. Do they feel satisfied?

I take a break from paddling and float out further away from land. Allowing my arms to rest, I lay back in my kayak and dip my fingers into the cold water. Ignoring the hard plastic that digs into my lower back, I close my eyes against the sun and feel the tiny ripples delicately rocking the kayak, creating a gentle rhythm. Without waiting for a response, the sea pulls me into its dance. I have no choice; it will move me as it wishes. It reminds me that it is the powerful one. It deviously allows men to think they can control it, but it can just as easily destroy all of their creations. But I too am made of water — a part of the continuous life cycle that ripples as one.

I sit up and look into the water: here it is deep and inviting. It taunts me and dares me to jump in. I accept the challenge and hoist myself up, slowly so as not to tip over. Taking a deep breath, I jump.

My feet pierce through the smooth surface, and my body follows as gravity pulls me down. The splash is muffled as cold water engulfs me. At first, my shocked skin screams in rebellion to the cold, but I ignore it. My feet squish into the muddy sediment. I quickly push myself away from the bottom. Submerged, I feel weightless, just another part of the ocean. I exhale, allowing air bubbles to float up, and my body to sink lower into the sea. I let my body become limp and drift momentarily underwater.

How insignificant! I have momentarily disappeared from the world of land-dwellers and been eaten up by the sea. Yet, life goes on. I kick back up for air and glance towards the bridge. Yes, the cars are still following each other, mindlessly, like ants. I wonder if they feel any pride — what have they accomplished today? What will I accomplish?

I tread water, wriggling my arms and legs and trying to keep my head above the surface. My limbs have warmed up from the movement, but my torso and abdomen burn with cold, almost numbingly. I give in to my body’s protests and carefully climb back into the kayak, compromising the weightless feeling for the warmth of the sun. After regaining my balance, I lay back, letting the cold water droplets evaporate off my skin. The warmth is soothing.

I begin to paddle back towards the shore, tasting the salt water on my lips and watching my faint reflection morph over the rippling, glassy water. My wet hair sticks to my back, and cold salty drops roll down my spine, their temperature amplified by the breeze. Peering over my shoulder, I notice a small flock of birds leaving the safety of the mangroves at Indian Key and flying towards the open sea. Their dark silhouettes form a V-shape as they sail through the light blue sky, wings batting the air in a consistent dance. Distant squawks echo across the water. Their shadow passes over me, and I wonder where they are going.

I quickly forget these questions that the salt water consolidates for me once I arrive back on land. Having thought about them nonetheless puts me at ease. Being out on the water and appreciating the seemingly simple landscape refreshes my senses — and my mind — allowing me to continue my day more consciously and aware of the interactive world around me.