What The Water Gave Me
My friend Kat won't go in the ocean. Every time she does, she gets hurt. She's lost trust in the idea. She's not alone in that. I once had another friend who said she wouldn't go in the ocean. In her case, the sea was bound inextricably in her mind to the idea of tragedy. It could strike again, that tragedy: the sudden suck of the sea, the vicious sting of the hidden jellyfish, the shark idly circling in the murky depth below. "I won't go in the ocean."
When I hear women say things like this, my first impulse is to physically drag them into the water, to say "See! You won't get hurt. Now you're standing here, with me, in the ocean, and you're just fine." Who knows what would happen, were I to do just that with Kat? Drag her into the water, show her that I'm right and she's wrong, that there's nothing whatsoever to fear, that the undertow cannot compete with feet rooted firmly in swirling sand and shells. But what if something were to go wrong? What if she followed me out to the sea and the undertow did catch her? What if she drowned because she trusted me?
Last night I stood at Vero Beach, looking at the Atlantic Ocean, thinking of the people I've dragged into the water and the people I've managed to leave alone on the shore. When you meet someone who is already hurting, already damaged, already delicate, and you attempt to drag them into a relationship, you're playing an awfully risky game. You might be experienced at standing firm against the undertow, you might run laughing back to safety, you might draw a heart in the sand. And you might then turn and find yourself alone, and see your companion face-down and motionless in the water, drifting out to sea. You might see the other victims you've abandoned out there, too, the women who were attracted to the idea of drowning, all beyond your help now.
I've always flattered myself that I could float in and out of relationships. What kind of person floats well? One, obviously, who is hollow inside.