There were thoughts, and thoughts avoided. There was a long day of plans and words on paper, waiting to be tied together, neatly wrapped, presented. I had them on the tip of my tongue.
But then the sun began to set, a great big peach of fire in the west, and I quickly changed, nearly ran down to the water. The pine trees were on fire, bright orange and red flames trickling through their branches, spreading onto the cliffs, the jetties and boats. The water was still, so still, and bright yellow in the low sunlight. I remembered a film I saw as a child, about whales escaping oil spills and fire on the water. Fire on the water! It seemed impossible in the world I knew.
For a minute, I let the warm rays dance across my skin, my hair in the breeze, and I dove in. Let the cold water surround me, mingle with my skin until I no longer knew where I ended and the sea began. After the initial shock settled, how sweet the moment, and I could not get myself to get up. Swam long strokes straight ahead, saw my fingers lift the clear water, break the surface, while I aimed for the island across the strait, still aflame in the setting sun. There was not a sound in the world but my steady strokes, my breaths, I was alone with the swallows, who skimmed the surface around me.
Eventually I got up, of course, the fire had died in the trees, left a purple shimmer for a few minutes before returning them to their regular browns and greens. The sea was still quiet, but the magic was gone. I carried a piece with me. Everything else had been washed away.
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