After writing about the pull of the waves the other day, I thought it would only be logical to post an excerpt from “Where the Campaign Ends” involving that scene.
Enjoy!
P.S. — Order the full version of “Where the Campaign Ends” on Amazon here.
Maggie Roberson kicked off her flip-flops and walked into the surf until the water covered her calves. She shivered against the bracing sea washing around her but smiled at the feeling of refreshment. Her body came to life as the fading sun shone on her face and every skin cell reacted to the touch of the ocean. She placed her feet a few inches apart and held her arms down by her sides at a slight angle. Tadasana. After a handful of deep breaths she closed her eyes, inhaled and spread her arms out wide, then moved them up and pressed her hands together over her head before lowering her arms with a long exhale until her hands were in front of her chest. Urdhva hastasana. On dry land this would be followed by additional yoga poses but here, in the rolling white surf, she instead moved her hands back to her sides in tadasana, the mountain pose, and focused on the water around her.
The cold kiss of the Pacific Ocean was bracing where it first made contact with her skin. Water splashed higher at random intervals, rolling onto the beach. Then gravity would take hold and the water would run back off of the sand, seeking its natural level, sucking the gritty mud out from underneath her feet as it retreated. She moved her awareness to the soles of her feet and felt each individual grain of sand pulling away, rushing across the silt already deposited from countless waves before and partially burying her sinking feet. She unconsciously shifted her weight until her feet emerged from the mud and she was back in balance.
Even as she did that, though, she could hear the gurgling as the retreating water met the incoming tide, the returning water moving out to sea underneath the broken wave heading toward shore, a portion of that wave moving counterclockwise as it was drawn with the water being pulled back into the ocean, the otherwise blue water turning tan from the circulating sand. The seemingly eternal sound lasted but a few seconds before the momentum of the wave won, sending water back up the beach and around her legs to start the process again. Except the process never was repeated identically, odd waves crashing hard and splashing water up her abdomen and across her chest, others barely reaching her feet before withdrawing. Every now and again, she would hear the loud crash of a particularly large wave cresting and breaking a couple dozen feet offshore to signify the end of a set, and then she’d count the seconds until the fast-moving water reached her.
The ocean, she thought, was both oblivious to her presence and fully aware, moving around her as if she were no more than a pebble while simultaneously pulling at her, enticing her to become part of the system. She slowly became aware of the rhythm of her own heartbeat, consistent as the waves yet predictable in a way the water never could be.
Soon the sixty-degree water would take its toll and strip her feet of feeling. Soon the muscles of her legs, though soothed by the cool water, would ask her to shift her weight rather than remain still against the odds. Once the sunset had released everyone from its spell, the sounds of activity around her, the breathing of beach walkers and the jingle of dog collars and leashes and even the faint conversation from the restaurants behind her, would compete for her attention with the ocean and the inner stillness she had created.
But not now. Not yet.
Another wave rolled in and she took another cleansing breath, allowing the briny aroma to sink deep into her lungs as a slight smile crossed her face in the sun’s final rays.
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