Dunked in the Atlantic

By invitation, I like to visit the ocean and La Siren from time-to-time. Every goddamn time, no matter how careful I am, she knocks me into the water when I go to dip a hand in it, like a friend who simply must tackle you out of enthusiasm, unsatisfied with a simple hug. I leave the ocean covered in sand, soggy, and salty, but effervescent with joy.

Sunday was no exception.

The lwa communicate in dreams, but they also communicate directly with your self. My dreams of late have been about my frustrations, culminating in the need to get back to the ocean, which just tells me that I need a visit.

It’s a good thing I’m not (as) afraid of being seen as crazy—imagine a woman dressed in a parka, pacing up and down the shore and talking to the ocean, then walking up to catch the edge of a wave with her finger and promptly getting knocked into the surf by a freakishly high wave. Imagine her staggering out of the surf, dripping wet and cackling like a lunatic.

It was 40 something today, even at midday. The water was beyond frigid.

I’m actually surprised no one has ever called the shore patrol during one of my little outings.

La Siren reminds me of things as I talk. It actually is a conversation, though people can only hear half of it.

I had errands to run afterward, which I ran in the same, wet clothes. It wasn’t until I was almost done that one of my roommates pointed out the salt line running across my ass and down the leg of my pants, which made me laugh (and made some of the… arched eyebrows while I was grocery shopping make more sense.)

Bless her. It’s nice to be wanted.