Second Self

Prologue

I was seven years old when I first got tumbled by a wave.

Usually, on our stretch of coastline, they’re soft and gentle.

They rock against the shore like a Moses basket, lulling bathers into the cold water.

That morning, the beginning of a blustery day at the end of summer, they were rolling harder, faster.

My mother didn’t hesitate, diving in and emerging a pink fleck in the blue expanse beyond, a mirror for the sky.

I battled, holding fast, my torso tense as a plank.

My puny limbs were pricked with goosebumps.

I looked back at the long, flat beach and our sorry pile of discarded clothes.

My mother called out that I ought to go with the waves rather than try to fight them.

That was the first time I considered nature’s hold over me, and the first time I resisted its demand.

I ignored her advice, and a moment later I was sucked under.

Saltwater up my nose and down my throat.

Spun with sand. Disorientated, scrabbling for air.

Until, at last, under my armpits, my mother’s hands.