Dive

I’m standing at the tip of the island. The soft sand seems to melt under my feet, the waves reaching millimetres near my toes before shyly retreating, unsure of what to expect from a humanly intervention.

The air smells salty. The crisp breeze soothes my drying skin. The sea is deep pristine blue, a mirror to the clear cloudless sky.

It’s 6am. No one wakes up at this time in this holiday island. The alcoholic effects from last night still linger. I turn backwards. The disco lights and red plastic cups lie strewn over on a section of the beach. The plastic roof is half collapsed. It couldn’t withstand the heavy rain late last night.

I close my eyes and lie down on the warm sand. I let the slight tinge of fatigue wash over my mind like a shallow quiet wave.


I couldn’t have been napping to long because the sun hasn’t moved much in the sky.

I sense a change.

I’m no longer alone on the beach.


On a breakwater on the far west of the beach, I see a lone figure standing tall on the rocky outcrop. It takes me a while to register that it’s a 30 or so year old woman.

She has on a simple purple dress and black flats to match. Her eyes are closed and she seems to be at peace. Perhaps she’s just taking in the fresh morning air. But something’s not right.

She takes a step forward. Now half her left foot is off the rocky surface, the only thing beneath it the chilly cool water of the Mediterranean Sea.

Next her right foot follows.

I know how this procession proceeds.

I can almost feel her body tensing up in preparation for the chill. The colour and heat slowly disappears from her skin. A mixture of fear and peace.

She knows what she’s doing. She’s prepared for this. She knows the dangers inside out. She wants this.

Without a second thought, I close my eyes and lie back down on the sand.

I know what’s going to happen.

The cortege is arriving at its destination.


Within the next few seconds, I hear a soft gentle splash.

The water isn’t inviting. The water isn’t shallow.

But she swims downwards and downwards anyway.

Like a cortege leading the procession slowly but surely to it’s final destination. Deep down where no one will find it, and where it can be at peace at least.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.