Myriam
Desperate, I convince myself I am content to sleep outside for these few hours until the sun rises. The chaise lounge I stumble upon near the pool will suffice as my bed. I am cloaked in the disarmed feeling of being dropped into the unknown in the middle of the night. After begrudgingly leaving the comfort of my taxi, I bumped my carry-on up the few steps. Not really sure where I am heading, I am being pulled towards the flat open spot between the white of the walls around me. I find my chaise, I see the reflection of the ocean, the dark space of the pool not yet awake in its blueness, the pink orange glow of sunrise beginning to unveil itself on the horizon. My mind not slowing with the excitement of all the new but my eyelids begging for just a few moments of closure.
As I begin to give into the pull of non movement after so many hours of non stop movement, she comes bounding, literally, across the pool deck. Tan limbs dancing out from her body, blonde bob of curls bobbing along with her, wearing a robe and satin tap pants “no no, this is not proper rest, there is a room for you, ready, I arranged it” she says to me in her thick accent. I follow her lead and find a bed in the room she directs me towards. Not fully remembering my head hitting the pillow, I relax and give in to the last directives of my weary body since 24 hours prior, eyes finally close.
We are walking in our bikinis and tennis shoes along the top of a jagged seawall. On my right is the clear emerald green ocean a few feet below us. We balance our way across the edge of a four inch wide rock and concrete ancient (decrepit) wall. She is in front of me, still skimming or skipping, or sliding, her feet never really seem to stay or even hit the ground when she moves, chattering away quite comfortably to me in her Belgian cadence.
We arrive at her beach, honestly just a small spit of black sand, not what we would call a proper beach back home. She effortlessly glides into the water, her hair and skin coming to life as they are caressed by the salty waters. Encouraging me, coaxing me to come along, but my landlocked self feels the old fear arise. “More of a pool gal,” I call to her over the lapping waves. She continues to insist, I continue to resist. Then something overcomes me, perhaps the jet lag, and I feel a sudden rise of courage. I’m going in!
Very ungracefully I enter, splashing a bit too much, awkwardly my arms and legs try to get their bearings unfamiliar in the sea. They are legs out of water. She squeals with glee, “yes, see, it's good, no? You’re doing wonderfully, yes yes, that’s it. Try to relax if you can.” After my initial gasp, I flutter my way through the water, looking for a rock or something unmoving to stand on, or at least to balance a toe on. “Do you want to be a sea star?” she impishly asks. Effortlessly she floats to me and with the utmost tenderness her hand rests on my lower back gently pushing my belly up to skim the surface of the ocean. I ease my head back and feel the warm green water enter my ears, stretching my hair in its currents, my legs and feet float up to the horizon. “Open your arms more, stretch your legs out, yes that's it, relax, I’ve got you. You are a sea star!” Like this we float, her reassuring palm against my sacrum. Barely there but for certain there. I begin to allow my breath to deepen, my eyes to gaze into the limitless sky above. Softening into the sea, a flash of truly what a sea star must feel like. Drifting and floating, one with the tides, but also one with a tiny anchor, the lightest touch of stability. My busy mind, as usual, interrupts my bliss. I begin to wonder how she is treading water so well and for so long, I snap out of my perfect sea star formation. I plop up to vertical just in time to see her golden curls glistening from the sea into the sun, and the slightest flip of her tail as she swims off.