ellen the bow

The water feels like velvet on his legs. Off shore there are clouds building, monstrous white billows pushing up into the crisp blue sky. Sun hot on his back. Wind cutting across his path, flicking white the tops of the small waves. He steps deeper. Deeper still. The water lifts him like Jesus might. He begins to swim into the warm water, parting it, the chop greeting him warmly, the taste of salt in his mouth. From above you would see him stroking through the shallow water, that wonderful turquoise lightness, with the pure white bottom blueing, then him entering the darker waters, the white caps all around him like flowers, appearing and disappearing in wild fluid motion. He swims and swims, reaching for eternity. On the beach the crowd does not notice him falling over the razor cut horizon. His red towel is spread carefully on the sculpted hot sand. The sun lowers, shadows shoot like spears across the beach. The red towel sits alone. Someone comes at dawn and finds it half soaked by the night high tide.