Riley

Riptide. [rip-tahyd]. A tide that opposes another or other tides, causing a violent disturbance in the sea.

All through high school and college, in every school and state I ever lived in, I always swam. It was my escape. In high school, I was on the varsity swim team. In college, I went to the regional conference for the back stroke. I sucked at everything else in life, but when I got into the tepid pool water and cut through it like nothing could stop me, I was extraordinary.

The nasty girls in my classes would always call me "that Army brat who can swim" which I guess is better than just "that Army brat." No matter what city we lived in, there was always a swimming pool and I could always dive into the cool water and leave my dark thoughts and fears behind me. Something about the rhythmic movement of my arms and legs pumping in unison stilled my mind and let me focus on one simple thing. Swimming.

Last night, I got out of girl talk with Lucy by saying that I was tired at 8:00 P.M. That definitely made waking up at six this morning significantly easier. I figure that if this summer isn't going to be a total waste of time, I might as well get my head in the right space with a swim. Merry Gene scheduled me for a shift at the pizza shop starting at noon which gives me time to put on my suit, head to the beach, swim a mile or so, and make it back in time to slave over the hot ovens in the kitchen. I haven't told her yet that I'm a horrific cook, but I figure she'll learn soon enough.

I slip out of my sheets on the lower bunk and clamber to my feet, tripping over my bag and making the floor creak. I sneak a glance up at Lucy on the top bunk--did I wake her up?

"Earnest--no!" she groans, rolling over. "Stop talking...about the Pythagorean theorem!" Another groan. "Let's...let's make out instead."

I cover my mouth to stifle my laugh--I'll have to ask Lucy about this later. I don't think I've ever heard the words "Pythagorean theorem" in the same sentence as "let's make out." I squat on the floor next to the bed and rifle through my bag until I find my bathing suit and a clean tank top and shorts. Then I sneak off the bathroom.

The tiny second-floor home is silent this early in the morning except for the ocean winds rattling the cedar shingles outside the window. The floor creaks a few times as I tiptoe to the bathroom, but no one rouses. The bathroom looks like it hasn't been renovated since the 80s with pink tiles on the wall and peeling linoleum. I change into my one-piece quickly, making sure I don't have a wedgie before I pull on my shorts and tank top. Even though I've detested this summer since I heard I was going to be sent to exile here, I'm still kind of excited to see the beach for the first time. We've lived a lot of places, but it's been a decade since I've seen the Atlantic Ocean, and I've never swam in anything but a pool before. My muscles yearn to give it a try.

I pull on flip-flops and pad softly down the hallway. In the kitchen, I leave a sticky note for the Covingtons to tell them I went down to the beach and I'll be back soon. Luckily, my parents didn't include an ankle monitor as part of my probation sentence, so I have a little bit of freedom.

I climb down the stairs and leave through the back entrance to the pizza shop, breathing in the salty air and tasting this new sense of freedom. Unlike yesterday afternoon, today Long Beach Island is sleepy and quiet. I see a few ambitious runners on the sidewalk with headphones in, but they ignore me. I can't imagine wanting to have headphones in when you could listen to the lapping of the waves and the seagulls chirping instead.

I cross the empty street and head for the beach. When I crest the top of the sand dune and see the ocean, I catch my breath. I've seen oceans in Europe and Asia and South America, but every single time, they take my breath away. My eyes trace the long coastline and the foaming waves that break onto the sandy beaches. I study the oscillating waters and the various colors that play across the surface--blues, greens, blacks--and the warm reflection of the morning sun on the water. I can see no one for miles except for an empty lifeguard stand an abandoned beach chair. It's just me.

Stripping out of my shorts and tank top, I drape them over a bench and check the mile marker so I'll remember where to come back to after my swim. I jog down the sand dune, feet slipping in the deep sand and lodging between my toes, and I start to laugh. There's no one here to tell me what a failure I am, badger me into becoming what they want me to be, force me into submission. I can be myself here, whoever that is. I kick the sand a few times, the granules brushing against my legs, and I lean down to look at a gorgeous shard of purple seaglass.

Okay, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe this summer isn't quite as bad as I anticipated it would be. True, I do have to spend the rest of my day flipping greasy pizzas and pretending to smile at annoying customers, but still. If I can spend my mornings here, I think I can put up with just about anything.

I skitter closer to the water and yelp when my toes finally make contact with the waves. Holy crap, that's cold. The water is icy, not yet warmed by the sun's rays, and goosebumps break out on my skin. I cross my arms over my chest and fight off a shiver, wishing I was wearing more than a one-piece Speedo. I walk along the beach for a while, lacking the nerve to jump into the waves, when I catch sight of something in the distance. I stop walking and strain my eyes.

Horses. I hold completely still and watch them run, a herd of horses with wild manes and salt-flecked coats of brown, black, and mottled gray. They gallop toward me, the wind blowing their untamed manes and tails in the wind. The lead horse skids to a stop when he sees me, whinnying and flaring his nostrils only a few hundred feet away. I watch him in awe, momentarily wondering if I should run away, but I can't. I'm entranced.

These wild horses are free; nothing keeps them in one location, so they go from place to place, itinerant travelers, nomads. These horses are a lot like me. Nothing ties them to one place or time; they flit to and fro where and when they want, making their own paths. But whereas my path has been haphazard and prone to trouble and disappointment, these wild horses are happy. The lead horse, a handsome bay, grows used to my silent company and nips at a few wild weeds growing on the sand dunes, watching me out of the corner of his dark eyes.

I'm jealous of a freaking horse. This horse is content with his lot, happy to wander where he pleases, but I've never been happy. I've always wanted something more, longing to finally settle in one location instead of living as a nomad all my days. An old granny in a checkered apron once told me that "home is where the heart is," and maybe that's my problem. I don't know where my heart is. It's not with my family; it's not with the very few friends I've managed to make or the places I've visited and lived in. Neither my heart nor I has a home.

I let out an exasperated sigh that reminds the horses that I'm here and that I don't belong with them. The first horse I saw rears onto his hind legs and lets out a whinny, calling the rest of the herd to follow him as they gallop away from me down the beach.

"Okay, enough," I mumble, falling into my old habit of talking to myself. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get in the freaking ocean."

I force myself to the edge of the waves again, inching into the water step by step. My toes curl up at the shock of the cold, but I force myself in. Once the water reaches my knees, I start to relax and I inch out further, squealing a little when one of the waves breaks against my chest. Finally, I dive in and paddle out to the point just past the breaking waves. I doggy paddle for a minute, catching my bearings and adjusting to the current. Unlike the pool, the sea has the power to push me back and forth, but I trust my experience to keep from being pulled out too far.

I take a breath and start to freestyle parallel to the beach. At first, my movements are stiff with cold and my legs struggle to flutter-kick, but eventually my muscles remember these movements and I glide through the water. The current takes some getting used to, but I like the way it feels. The water is as alive as I am, dancing with me as I weave through the waves. I flip over on my back and backstroke for a while, watching the seagulls that caw above me and a few whimsical clouds that mar the perfect blue sky. With each stroke, I swim farther and farther away from my troubled thoughts.

As I swim, my limbs start to grow sore from fighting against the current and my breath grows raspy. I check my Fitbit and see that I've swam a little less than half a mile, and I make a deal with myself that I'll finish the half mile and then head back to shore. I flip onto my stomach and push myself forward, straining every muscle to glide as quickly as I can through the water. My heart beats inside my head, pounding out a rhythm, and I draw in a quick breath on every stroke. I push myself to swim until every muscle screams for me to stop.

When I feel like my energy is spent, I doggy paddle for a minute and catch my breath. My Fitbit reads .57 miles--not bad for my first time swimming in the ocean. I look towards the beach and find I'm a little farther away than I expected, but life returns to my limbs with each huff of oxygen and I start to swim towards the beach.

That's when I feel the current--this time, it's not propelling me forward; it's pushing me back out to sea, fighting me from going back to the beach. I lengthen my arms and swim harder, trying to push against the tide, but I don't make any progress. Instead, the beach looks farther and farther away.

The pounding in my chest becomes frantic. I thought being alone was a good thing, but it's too early for the lifeguards and there was no one on the beach but the wild horses. If I can't get myself to shore...

In my panic, my head bobs underwater and I gulp a mouthful of ocean water, choking on it, and I paddle until I break free from the ocean's grasp. I cough out the water and try to paddle back to the beach, my arms and legs now flailing. It's not working. I'm getting nowhere.

Suddenly, a wave breaks on top of me and I'm shoved underwater again. The tide has me, it won't let go, and I'm alone. No one can rescue me, and as the water enters my lungs, I realize I can't save myself either.

~~~~~

You guys might be able to guess where this is headed! Did anyone notice the double-meaning to some of the stuff going on in this chapter? Comment with your predictions and thoughts, and stay tuned for the next chapter!

Enjoying this story? Vote, comment, and add it to your library! And thank you for reading :)

~ Hannah