The Sea

I am lost at sea.
6 weeks ago I dived from the safety of my island into the sea and began swimming.
I did not choose to dive; I was called, helplessly, against the will of my mind.
The pain called me; urged me to go.
I was unable to resist.
Maybe I have been swimming these past 4 years, knowing only temporary islands.
Searching for new dry land.
The grandmother took my hand propelled me into the ocean, miles from the shore.

I am exhausted, but drowning is not an option.
So I keep swimming, getting more exhausted with each passing day.
Swimming from dawn to far beyond dusk with no break melts the spirit.
The sky is cloudy; the ocean dark.
The sun cannot be seen; there are no reference points.
I recall — like its someone else’s memory — that I might have known where I was going when I dived.
Now there is no distance, no direction.
There is only water as far as the eye can see.
The swell of waves, each one unidentifiable.
Sometimes I swallow water and cough and choke, feeling like I’m drowning.
I turn over, lie on my back and cough it out.
Then turn back to swimming.

I desperately need to rest.
Sometimes I hope that I’ve reached shallower water.
I might be able to put my feet down.
To stop swimming; to feel the swell around me as I stand on the bottom.
But there is no bottom; it is far too deep.
As I reach out with my feet and find no bottom, my head starts to submerge.
I panic; I flail; I come up to the surface.
And start swimming again.

The panic stalks every stroke.
The fear that I am on the verge of drowning.
It grips my throat.
A madness that I cannot shake.
I want to surrender to the waves.
But I must keep swimming.
There is no choice but to swim.
I no longer know why I swim; only to survive.

It is a desperately lonely journey.
I swim alone.
Sometimes voices seem to turn up on the wind.
Every so often a touch; a word of reassurance.
Then I am back to swimming alone.
Maybe there are people all around me.
But I am so focussed on swimming — on surviving — that I cannot turn my head.

How I wish I believed in a God who blew the wind to guide me.
Faith is a fleeting thing.
Who is there to guide me?
Only my swimming.
Only onwards.

I can feel the heavy weight of my clothes, sodden and freezing, sticking to my skin.
Sometimes I think how much easier it would make the swim to take those clothes off.
To let them fall to the bottom of the sea; to be rid of the weight.
I have been brave enough to take some clothes off; to let some sodden weight fall away.
But then I’m reminded of everyone wearing clothes when I departed.
What would it be like arriving naked in a clothed land?
All the while not knowing that, where I’m headed, clothes have long since been discarded.

So I swim onwards.
Not knowing where I am going.
Having no guidance.
Hoping the wind is blowing me to land and to safety.
Desperate.
Gripped by terror that doesn’t let go.

I am swimming across the ocean.
Terrified.
And I am drowning.