Wild, Crazy and Blue

Wild, Crazy and Blue WRITTEN BY JORDAN TOWNS

I have a complicated relationship with Water. I love all the different styles she wears. I love the salty smell she leaves on my body after a coastal swim. I love the winds and the smell of wet earth when she

rains. I love her gentleness and the way she stirs with the fish in her belly. But there’s a style I don’t like that she wears – her furious side. It’s almost

killed me.

So, Water, count yourself dumped.

Actually, the first time she nearly drowned me, I had been the one being dumped. I was only eight years old and the lurking wave had knocked all the air from my lungs. I remember feeling my spine smack the pebbly seabed as Water angrily lashed me backwards again. When she backed off for mere moments, I was able to collect my feet and push myself to the surface. But Water had been waiting, and before I could get enough air, her wave had pounced on me again.

This time it had been worse because, finally, I had realised I was in serious trouble if I couldn’t

time my escape right. I remember doing the one thing they always told me not to do when you’re in these situations – I panicked. Water lashed out at me again, sending my body in a tumbling spiral of dizzying pummels. The curls of the waves pulled and tugged at my limbs as I swirled, unwillingly, with her tight hold. Eventually, when I thought I was truly never going to see the surface again, she grew bored and let me go. I breathed in the air so quickly, I almost coughed a heavy amount back up again. Water had been a bully that day. For not only did she try to drown me, she also stuck a whole lot of sand down my swimmers.

I realised this later, as sickening as it was, that Water had a type. She liked children. She enjoyed the way they struggled and how easy it was to pull them towards hysteria. When I was even younger, before Water and I had truly met, she had selected the smallest boy she could find. No one seemed to notice the flurry of hair spiralling beneath the hotel pool. I had noticed. I recognised the quietly frantic struggle of someone being pinned by Water.

My tiny, five-year-old hand clenched the boy’s longsleeved swimmers and plucked him from her grasp. He had gasped and spluttered like a fish, breathing in strong breaths of relief on his side. His parents held him and pulled him further from Water’s reaches, as they thanked me profusely for saving his life. It’s been too long for me to remember the specifics, but I know I wouldn’t have had a clue that I saved that boy’s life.

I have a complicated relationship with Water. She burns my eyes, tickles my lungs, prunes my skin and leaves me bleeding. But for some reason, I always go back.