In the Maine Ocean

(Celeste Cota Photography)

I never remember how numb Maine water feels on my toes. Irrelevant the cloud count or the blazing hot iron sun brought on by these scorching months, the heat breaking open the skin on my back, raising and razing hell from the bone out. 50 degrees is 50 degrees. The tidepools are irrelevant too - misleadingly inviting. Close your eyes and you could picture yourself in Cancun. But no, the Atlantic doesn’t care for your daydreams. 

My one-piece feels out of place in this touristville, like I’m somehow underdressed. There’s women in Prodda bikinis strolling across the sand, carrying beach chairs and bags. Kids in frilly swim skirts run beside them. A chiseled guy in the lifeguard stand rubs sunscreen on his arms. I think I bought this bathing suit from Walmart. 

Gingerly, keeping my pace steady as to ignore my cold feet, I trudge through the salty water. When the sand gives up it’s tough act, it bows in my wake. My ankles feel and then unfeel instantly. Every inch of my legs which submerge, follow suit, almost as if they surrender before they begin. A sailboat comes close enough to the beach that I wonder if it plans to dock here, though the sails are facing east-northeast toward the great open expanse, like the mouth of the port spit them out and they are at the mercy of the sea. I guess I am too, though I'm out here of my own volition, looking for something though I’m not quite sure what. 

I turn around to check on my things up on shore. Untouched. A woman sunbathes beside an umbrella, rendering said umbrella useless. A girl my age sits alone in a chair, facing the sky to gain some extra color, though her complexion is already so dark I'm not sure there’s room for much more. 

My hips and stomach are always the hardest to acclimate to the cold. Unlike the rest, they stubbornly hold onto sensation for the longest, like their waiting for the ocean to warm up for them. That’s how they are everywhere, really. Let’s be honest, my ass is bigger than my boobs by a long run, years of gymnastics and mashed potatoes. My hips sway into the water, persuading the current to change direction, cutting through like a butterknife - my belly is just along for the ride, pudgy in some places, the tiniest stretch marks climbing up my sides, filling with salt water sunscreen. When the sunlight hits them, they look like lightning bolts. One shock and the beach is fried. 

A wave slaps me in the chest and spits at my chin. My breath catches in my throat. Spray mists my eyes and I rub them with damp, sticky hands. I tie my hair up when my vision’s recovered and keep going, momentarily slowed by the wave. I follow the motion of the tide retracting, gearing up for another release. The ocean waits for no one. I steal through the current and jump as the peak of another wave passes through me. Now, the underside of my breasts are submerged, and instinctively I stand on my toes. Don’t be a little bitch, keep on the ground. My arms have been above the water this whole time, and I force them down, muffling a squeal. The last few steps are the shoulders and neck, then the head. I look back again. My bag is still untouched, perched on an orange blanket, towel waiting for me like a pillow after a long day. Four young boys splash around in the shallow water, and the occasional swimmer and floaty-armed girl pepper the beach. 

People and people and people come and go from the beach, maintaining one of the highest populations this shore has seen all summer. The lifeguard is watching the caramel girl rub tanning lotion on her chest. The Prodda women are brushing their curled hair out of their faces and squinting at the sun, irritable and sandy. Mothers scold children. Dads pass frisbees to other dads, bud lights sloshing in hand. Surfers descend the shore to meet the water with enthusiasm. And I’m out farther than anyone has ever been. I could drown here and no one would notice. I like it. This is where I feel anonymous, one of too many to count, like a grain of sand. Here is where, in broad daylight and in front of a million witnesses, I can do my dance with the waves. 

The riptide pulls me to my right, so I swing my hips left, spin, swing to my right, spin, left again, moving and swirling the sand beneath my feet like a slow motion dustbowl. When I let my hair down, the waves catch it and I become a May Pole. The sun warms the top of my head, a hot plate to the birds, until I dunk beneath the surface. For once, it’s quiet. The mundane conversations of the beach silent, and all I ever need to hear is the waves. Come. Go. Return. Come. Go. Return.

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*Written in 2020, finalized in 2021