I am in the ocean. I am underwater, and I am drowning. I can’t breathe. I can’t swim. I never learned how because I’m allergic to chlorine, or at least that’s what it says on the $40 note I got excusing me from the high school swim requirement. I think I’m going to die, and I quickly resign myself to that fate. I remember how good it feels falling asleep at the end of a long day. Everything starts to fade. Somehow, inexplicably, against my very own wishes, I break through the surface of the water. It is too soon, I am enraged, but I breathe, again and again. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. I feel the sun on my bare skin; a gentle breeze ruffles the hairs on my arm. I don’t wonder how I got back on land. I just go about my days, and I start to forget that I almost drowned. But then I hear that unmistakable thump. See a movement out of the corner of my eye. A shadow. A familiar silhouette. That indescribable smell. A memory. A dream. A picture. A cloudy day. The rain.

And suddenly, I’m underwater again. I don’t panic this time. I wait patiently for it to pass. It seems I never left the water, but I have learned how to come up for air. On good days, I float easily and quietly, enjoying the smell of salt and sulfur. Occasionally, there is a disturbance in the water. The moon, the tides, the wind. A storm. I fight for breath again. How long until I reach land? Will I ever get there?

Life began in the ocean and so the ocean holds our tears. How did mammals adapt to living on the land? By learning to carry the ocean within us. Human beings are mostly water, after all. Someday, I will carry the grief within me, and then I will walk upon the shore again. For now, I live in the water. I know I won’t drown, even though I want to sometimes. I just close my eyes and remember to swim.