Sea Green, Sea Blue, Sea Gold (personal narrative)

The air smelled a mess of dirty salt and gasoline. The wind made this even more apparent and my body shivered under my newly wet hair, but inside I felt a kind of warm you only get after life suddenly reveals one of its many secrets. My bare feet left dark shadows on the cement road, a backward path leading to the glossy eyes of a loyal friend and an ocean that hid the dark underbelly of Gods hands. It was midday and the crows overhead cawed in agreement as I retold the radiance of what I had learned: there is nothing as peaceful and calming as knowing youre about to die. 1

My best friend walked next to me, soaking wet and strangely more perturbed than me. She had pulled me out; she had saved my life, or, rather my death. She did not say anything as we walked back to camp. But simply listened to the retelling of my magical journey through the underwater circus and its array of beastly creatures. I closed my eyes, remembering every detail. The old sunken train running on tracks made from departed pirate ships. The corpse passengers who waved to me through the broken glass windows. All around me, giant seahorses, mermaids, great white whales. All of them painted fluorescent gold, fuchsia, jade, surrounded by a deep pink aura and floating through a yawning indigo sea.2

But she didnt want to hear about the glossy-eyed crow that lay dead on the beach and spoke a warning of the sea. She said that God had spared my life and I shouldnt create such fiendish stories. In an attempt to avoid conflict I decided to walk the rest of the way in silence, but inside my mind still raced through the fantastical sights.3

The next day I woke to a still sleeping sun and a single blackbird perched on the window sill of the old camper. I stepped outside and was immediately knocked onto my back. Staring upward the trees seemed to move, as if they had decided to uproot themselves and take a moonlit stroll. In the distance I could hear the ocean like an enormous lion. He was angry. I closed my eyes, trying to remember the reflective seaweed smell of underwater, but the lions roaring sent chills down my spine and I began to recall a game I had made up years ago to pass the long summer days. A game of standing by the waters edge.4

Then one day, as the waves danced circles over my feet a great lion emerged and swept me up into his deep golden paws and I rode on his back through the glittery sound as he took me to India and China and the Caribbean. We lived and loved and had many adventures together, until inevitably, I grew old and my hands got tangled in his mane, and I became part of him. And at that moment a great wind started up and broke my hands from my wrists, and I was knocked onto my back in a warm pile of sand and I was young again. I was young and afraid and out in the green sea gazed my lions greener eyes, my small hands wrapped tightly around his neck. But the wind had changed me, and I walked in the direction of a nest of new crows, my bare feet left a pathway leading to a loyal friend. And then there was quiet.5

I opened my eyes and stared up at a vacant sun, my fingers intertwined in the bottle green grass. I stood up, waited for the crows in my head to stop cawing, and walked to the end of the campsite. There was a gray sky above and a gray road below, but there was a blue ocean in front of me. I ambled over to the waters edge and lingered until the icy waves grew brave enough to touch my pink toes. They pulled back, surprised, but they returned carrying a set of two perfect hands and the end of a story.6