As drops in the ocean

by Anastasia Poushkareva

Water is the most powerful thing in the world. I, of course, have heard this before - so much has been said and written, felt and imagined. When you stand near the shoreline or even advance to a knee-deep area, with nothing but the salty breast of the Atlantic lying before you - you subconsiously step further, as the water caresses your legs and the wind inebriates you. Only caution that is still somehow present holds you from giving yourself to the ocean, sacrificing yourself with a smile, dissipating into miniscule drops. And you walk back disappointed as the wind calls you back, but you move on.

Then you stand on a boat having distanced yourself from the seductiveness of water, watching it run headlong into the wall of civilization and retreat angrily preparing for a retaliation. The wind is teasing as ever. It playfully pulls up your shirt, and you can feel its light hands on your skin, filled with the most insane of desires.

When you step towards the nose of the boat, the wind becomes more demanding, brutal. Its hands, previously gentle, tear and slap; the mass of air, salt and bitterness crashes into you from the side of Northern Maine and plants a thousand sharp kisses. Later that night you go on a date with the ocean, and as soon as your toes touch the sand, the wind blows you away in its joyful welcome. The waves roll on excitedly as you fall on your knees and try to catch them with your hands. The water breaks away, leaving foam and a couple of polished pebbles at your feet.

There are so many shores in Massachusetts where water treats you differently like every unique lover. In some places it crashes at your feet angrily, invading your territory; but in spite of its pride, it wants to be conquered like a fearful virgin. In other, the sea puts its treasures before you like a lusty rich seducer, and you smile and let it fondle your body. In Yarmouth the ocean greets you with a roar on the very first date, but then it, charmed, finds itself timidly kissing your toes, for it has nothing to offer you except a profusion of seaweed and broken seashells. This morning, when you walked the sand trail for the last time, the water was calm and crystal clear. It still gave you a plethora of its gifts, but it had ceased asking, pleading, caressing. It lay indifferently around your ankles, brought in motion only by the movement of your feet. And you knelt beside it, trying to stir its apathy with your hands just to feel its salty love on your lips one more time. And you laughed at your human clinginess and walked away, and for a second it seemed that the ocean smiled back, but you weren't sure.