Sea Salt Stories

Part 1

A wave came over me. It rose tall, above me, towering menacingly. I paddled right with all my might, exhausted under the heavy and humid summer breeze. But I didn't make it. In a couple of seconds I was tumbling under water. I rose up to gasp for air, knowing I had only a couple of seconds before another wave crashed over me. I quickly got up on my surfboard and paddled rightwards, out of the wave break.

I saw where my friends were, across from me further into the water, why did they seem so far away? They were closer to the horizon, bopping gently... up and down, eyes gleaming, hair glistening, skin shining.. I paddled towards them... out of breath.

They were leftward of me, further out. The sky was a sweet baby blue, it blended with the darker greener blue of the water, further demonstrating its depth and power. I could see the outline of their bodies, against the summer sun. And right there and then, I wished I could be a painter. A painter so I could capture this moment, like a screenshot of real life, irreplaceable.

And if I could use a technique, I would choose watercolors. Watercolors resemble real life and the colors merge, creating new ones, adding depth and mystery to the painting, just like the ocean. Alas, I cannot paint, I can barely draw, so I must write this now.

I would paint a picture called Friends. It would have one girl gracefully sitting on a surfboard with her back to us. Her long blond hair interweaved with caramel strands, gradually getting lighter until they would almost blend with her skin. She would be pointing and talking energetically. I think she might have been talking about the water, or surfing, or about the ocean. I know, because she loves the ocean.

In this same painting, next to her, also sitting on a surfboard, waiting and wishing for a wave, I would draw a boyish man. Boyish, not in the sense of immature, but in the sense of emanating youthfulness. Of giving the air of someone ready to live life, of someone not yet tired of doing the same thing over and over and over again.

This boyish man would have wet dark brown curls hanging sheepishly over his forehead. He would hang onto her every word, hoping to ride a wave sooner rather than later. Perhaps, another obvious and more accurate title for such a painting would be Patience. He who masters patience, masters youthfulness, because he does not tire of doing the same thing endlessly. That right there, in and of itself, is a superpower.

I pictured another painting. Called it Initiation. If only I could paint and if the watercolors (along with its hues) and the brushes would listen to my hand, I would definitely will it into existence.

This painting would be of a tall dark young man, but I would only show the outline of his back. He would have a surfboard on one side and a brown haired child on the other. I would paint a child of about three, a cute, chubby and happy child. The tall man would be stepping into dangerous territory. This beach had no sand, only big rocks, and the waves crashed directly on shore.

I would draw the child turning her head, looking at us and I would attempt (albeit feebly) to capture her happy brown eyes and the excitement in her heart. I would love to paint, showing her young soul yearning for adventure. Her face would not show fear of the crashing waves, or did she not see them? She trusted, obviously, the tall man that was carrying her. So another name for this painting could be Innocence. Or Protecting Innocence. Because I know the tall man would never let anything happen to her.

Then the muses (who long ago had stopped talking to me) along with the summer breezes sheepishly whispered another painting in my ear. And I saw it clearly, plastered in my mind's eye, an intrepid redhead.

She was on a 50 ft beautiful sailboat. She (the sailboat) was called Bellisima. And indeed she was. She would be braving the icy waters in an attempt to reach a mysterious island that can only be seen when there is no mist. The redhead captain would be doing the journey on her own, only accompanied by her brave first mate, whose skills included a highly acute sense of smell, incredible hearing, and four legs: a cute St. Bernard. The captain would be at the stern of the boat, and the first mate at the bow of the boat. Bellisima would be full sails up, slightly tilting leeward as she sailed upwind. This painting would be called like the boat: Bellísima.

And I think I was about to come up with a new painting. I wanted to capture another sea moment, but my friends seemed equally far away from me than they were when I started paddling. I started to form another picture, but a mist started creeping in blocking them from view. I paddled harder and harder, and suddenly felt really really cold...

I woke up, there was light blinding me, and there were a bunch of doctors and nurses over me.

"Hey how do you feel?" asked the young doctor. He was kind and had a comely face.

"What happened?" I asked

" 911 call, we picked you from the beach, your friends took you out after you hit a rock"

" I don't remember"

"Well all of them are outside, they will be happy to know that you are stabilized and out of danger"

I sat back in bed and had no recollection of the accident. Only of my dream and an overwhelming desire to capture the small moments of life.