Not yet drowning

Standing on the shore,

          waves lapping at my feet,
          the ocean—turquoise, teal, aqua, white caps of waves—reaching toward infinity,
          meets the bright blue sky, made brighter by the intensity of the hot sun,
          a few thin clouds scattered, slowly moving in the slight breeze.

My family is far enough away that I feel alone
					(left alone, but not lonely),
          soaking in the quiet, the solitude, the warmth,
          clenching my toes into the wet sand.

A step forward,
          maybe to peak at a hermit crab,
          or to feel the water splashing up my ankles,
          then further to my thighs, waist.

A wave rises,

				suddenly,

          the undertow picks me up by my own feet and
          tosses me with ease,

                    into the ocean;

          I see water and black and bubbles and green and seaweed and

then,

          it heaves me back onto the shore.

I lie on the beach, stunned.

I am grateful to be alive,

                                        but I still can't breathe.