Last night I went from one dream seamlessly into the next, all of them connected somehow, until the last one. I was in the ocean, somewhere like Ross Bay or even Cox Bay, far far out. I’d drifted, floating in the water, thinking about other stuff, until I realized I was half across a wide strait, maybe the Strait of Juan de Fuca, out past the breakwaters and out of sight of anyone. No one knew I’d gone swimming by myself. How would I get back to shore?
And what now, I thought. I am out beyond my depth. Anyone’s depth. I was in the shipping lanes. There were tankers not too far away. What now. No one knew where I was.
I will have to swim hard to ever reach the shore, I told myself. I told myself I don’t even know the crawl (it’s true, I don’t. My slow kilometre, 3 times a week, is achieved, if I might use the word, by side-stroke, back-stroke, and a very inept breast-stroke). I turned back to begin the long journey back to shore and realized how deep the water was, how (suddenly) treacherous and cold.
The shore, far away, was luminous in late afternoon sunlight. I turned, I began to swim, and somehow knew I would never reach it by dark.