Yachatstasy

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay

I can feel the rhythm of the sea.

The current lulls while pulling back until the intrusion of crashing waves breaks the spell. Tis a strip tease the ocean does with the shore.

Mesmerizing and violent by turns, water flows soft before the burst of rage that frightens and excites.

There is grace in the erosion the sea wreaks upon the land.

I lie along the jagged edge and stare at the liquid jade beating against the rocks, the stone reshaped with the eternal rise and fall of the waves.

The water’s mark is left over time, its influence ever changing.

Sexuality is poetry when spoken with the cadence of the ocean. Orgasm now has the potential of infinity, expanding to allow ecstasy that is slow and enduring; its subtlety lingers long after the coupling is over.

In that moment of awakening, the sea turns mischievous with a sneaker wave that leaves me soaked. 

The ocean fascinates more the further the tide comes in.

The poetry of its language becomes a spoken word jam, a loud roar with staccato timing, merciless in its penetration, and the scenery only grows more devastating.

I want to get closer to the force.

Stepping tenderly along those jagged edges, I move to where two flows of the tide collide at the low point of the rocks.

Sometimes, the tide comes in nice and easy, and the embrace is chaste – a peck on the lips.

Then the momentum builds and builds until two currents shatter in an explosion of foam. The love gets deeper as the tide keeps coming, crashing droplets of salty froth that soar high above me. 

Crescendo.

It is a dance and a symphony, and the ferocity is too much.

I start to move, my rubber boots doing a near silent stomp as I wave my arms, circle my hands, and twirl my fingers.

The flamenco beats in time to rhythm of the ocean, the sound of waves booming against the rocks makes me giddy.

So this is how music and dance came to be.

I am certain of it.

Way back when we had the good sense to listen to the world around us, this is how it must have happened.

We called out in response. Clapping and stomping, so consumed were we with the motion and songs of the earth, we had no choice but to move our bodies in step.

How euphoric it must have been to play with the world around us, and how joyous when the world played back almost doesn’t bear thinking about.

Because if we did, we’d have to confess alienation was our own choice.

I resent my clothes.

I want to feel the wind and absorb the salt into my being. I compromise and take off my shirt.

Standing at the edge, I continue my dance with the sea as waves crash before and spits of water shoot like geysers through the blowholes behind me.

The ocean is relentless.

Her aggression becomes a little terrifying.

The waves climb higher…and higher…making a zenith of noise when they fall.

I back off and join my friend.

We stand inside the pelvis of the rock beds, a bowl formed in the stone, far enough from the edge where the rocks meet the sea.

Yet the tide still runs past us, around the stone on either side, and the waves continue to rise high above us before they crash.

But for now, we are safe inside that pelvis.    

"This is fiercely beautiful," says my friend.

And she’s right. It is.

Near us, a flock of pelicans coast just above the rising crests of watery emeralds until they peak, and evade the collapse of smashing foam.

Far away, the light changes as the sun drops behind rolling clouds, sending beams across the sky.

Yet the clouds hover above the horizon, leaving a path for us to see clearly the fall of the sun.

At the far reaches of the world, the sea is lavender slate; and there, I see waves rolling and crashing in the distance.

At last, the ball of fire descends and makes shadows of the birds flying across the horizon.

 Crescendo.

 We have stayed on the edge for over five hours, bearing witness to the spectacle of an incoming tide that happens every day.

But it is exquisite on this one.

Many people have come and gone in that time, but we remained. That piece of the coast belonged to us in those precious hours.

But now, it’s time to go.

The sun is gone and the sky is growing darker. The sea has become ominous and water climbs over the rock beds where we stood earlier.

It won’t be long before the bowl where we stand is flooded and the shoreline is fully possessed by the tide.

Making our way over the rocks, we are exhausted and exhilarated, and covered with salt.

I can taste the ocean on my fingers.

Photo by Terina Chapman