Missing the Coast

That water, wading into the Oregon Pacific. Always colder than I know how to expect, clasping my ankles with the aching sting that swells, dulling, into numbness. The sand, scouring until the flesh fades in the distorted, opiated distance. Standing footless as the waves crash, reach, and recede; walking footless on the slow eddies of phantom cold. That dreamy moment every four waves or so when the water flattens, a bright rocking pause beneath the argyle tracery of foam. Stillness that nonetheless crests and then sucks back, pulling into itself with the exponential inevitability of falling asleep. And then I am left to be the stillness, as the water gathers itself beneath itself and away.