I like to watch the sea dance. I often find myself trying to commit the shape of the waves to memory. You see, they show up, out of the blue, and drown away so quickly one into the other that the eye gets drawn to the next one, and the next, and again, none of them leaving a clear, detailed, lasting impression. I know they start to form in the shallows. I know that the stronger the wind, the higher the waves. I know how they'll eventually die with a kiss on the shore or up in spouts against the cliff. I know what waves do, but I can't tell you about a specific one, any one, from when it was born to the moment it sunk back into the sea. Maybe that's why we tend to talk about the waves, plural.
Maybe it's because waves should be enjoyed together, as a whole. I have an ongoing fling with the ones which bring the salt up to my lips. The ones carrying the storms along for the ride. They drape the shore in whirlpools of sea spume; a bubble bath for the soul. Maybe they are the small waves down my cheeks.
I remember the wave that got you whole, head to toe, in a splash. I remember the one that roared as it crashed, though surprisingly small. I remember the one that sent me tumbling with a cheering toast of a litre of salted water. I remember the one that made us capsize. I remember the one that made me lose my footing on the bridge of the ferry. I remember the one that rushed over the pier.
I remember all the waves you watched intently, hoping to prove me wrong. Especially that one wave that didn't know where to go, barely keeping it together. You probably forgot all about it, maybe I wasn't so wrong. Maybe waves are meant to be enjoyed together, you and me.
