“Tidal Shift”

A new thought suddenly filled my mind.

“Grab a rock.” In the level, echoing voice one usually likens to God, the command filled every space of my mind. It was all I knew, all I could think about, all I was—it’s reassuring strength nearly calmed me. I reached out through the water, my eyes squeezed shut and my cheeks ballooned like a puffer fish. The rough texture of a boulder slipped past my fingers before I even registered what it was.

“Well, that’s it for me.” The voice commanded with equal intensity how I messed up my last chance. As a ten-year-old, I accepted in that moment that I was going to die. That rock would be the last thing I ever touched. It didn’t bother me—I had accepted my death and was strangely calm. But still, inexplicably, I swung my arms through the current, searching for another rock, another chance. The water felt smooth and wavy between my fingers—like a piece of malachite I once brushed up against at a museum. The hand of the ocean continued to pull me out to sea. My hands trailed past a second rock.

“Grab a rock.” With renewed faith, the voice returned, filling the entirety of my consciousness with its command, and this time, I could obey. I dug my fingernails into the boulder’s chipped surface, used the flow of the wave to carry my arm around it, and held on. I