The ocean doesn't want me today

I spent a long weekend at the coast with friends, and I’m exhausted. Just completely knocked out. Too much sun, too much time spent scrambling around rocky tide pools in inappropriate shoes, too much drinking and singing and dancing. I’m going to hole up in my house for a couple of weeks and not talk to anyone. I have a very strange relationship with the ocean. I love it. I really do. It’s a source of constant beauty. No matter what angle you look at it from, no matter the weather or the time of day, it’s just incredibly beautiful. I love how the ocean defines the sky, and I love thinking about what’s over that giant, irresistible horizon. I love that sense of fulfillment you get after a day spent at the beach, the tired, sore, and lazily happy sense of a day well spent.But it also scares me shitless. I’m always aware of its vast, impersonal power, and every now and then I get a sense of a not so impersonal hunger. Waves tickling at your feet that seem so playful are just the tendrils of monsters that swallow ships whole. They rip ships apart and send their remains crashing up onto shore. She swats giant logs around her beaches like a cat playing with a feather. She lurks off the shore in currents that beguile you in with promises of fun waves to play in and that promptly snatch you out to nourish her children and litter her floor with your bones. She’s like a fairytale witch, lovely and deadly and completely unfathomable. Her movements shake the freaking Earth on its poles, for heavens sake. It’s crazy that we skim her surface on flimsy devices and play at her feet without a thought for the immensity that looms around us. So, I love being there, but I can’t help but get overwhelmed by it all. This weekend, after getting a little tipsy on 15 year old scotch, I went down to the beach alone at sunset, determined to have it out with the ocean. I picked up some great skipping rocks on my way down; I took off my shoes, hiked up my skirt, and resolutely walked towards the waves. There’d been a storm the night before and the surf was huge. I got about up to my calves and started skipping rocks off the tops of the waves like I hadn’t a care in the world. I played with the waves a bit, running out with them and then flying back towards the shore to avoid getting soaked. I started to get a little cocky, enjoying the adrenaline rush of all that power so close by. I turned my back on her, walking back to the beach with a big smile on my face. And she promptly stole my feet out from under me and slammed me face first into the water, rolling me over and tumbling me into an ignominious, sandy, bruised heap on the shore. I got up, shook my fist, and swore at her, calling her all kinds of nasty names. And limped back up the stairs to nurse my pride and bruises with another glass of scotch.