I have a recurring dream, different but the same every time.
I know there should be sound–the sound of waves, rolling, lapping.
But, there’s no sound.
Just rolling walls of water.
Last night I watched from a window.
Other nights, I’ve been walking on the boardwalk
Or running down the beach.
Last night, I watched from a window.
The waves roll, sometimes inviting.
I want to be in them, but it’s too much work.
So much work.
A dark skinned girl appears.
Pinkish dress with tulle accents.
She wades into the rolling, raucous waves.
My heart leaps.
No! I shout.
(But not, because I am silent.)
Someone tell her it’s not safe!
She smiles.
Swims into the waves.
And then she is gone,
Under a wave from which she never re-emerges.
Until she does. With a boogie board.
And a mother.
Behind her, steadying the board.
It’s dangerous! Get out!
I want to shout.
But I don’t.
I watch as mom eases her fears.
Over,
Sometimes through each wave.
How do they manage?
Other people in the water
Ford wave after wave.
As if they like it.
As if they don’t mind the work
Or the exhaustion.
I don’t hear or smell in these dreams…
Just see.
And feel.
Mute.
Powerless.
As the waves come and come and come,
They don’t seem to sense their danger.
They enjoy.
I can’t see their faces.
Just their bodies, upright,
Going over and over each wave.
Watching,
Anticipating the next ones.
Don’t they see the 70-foot waves?
Aren’t they scared?
They watch.
Wait.
Float.
Jump.
Glide over with ease.
Playfully.
Carefree.
As I watch from behind the floor-to-ceiling window.
Unable to stop them.
Or make them see the danger.