The Woman with the Sea Inside

A woman held the sea inside her, magnificent. Alone, she looked down through its fathoms with secret smiles. She knew the shining silver of its smooth, unbroken skin, its reflections ever faithful. Her fingers tapped in rhythm with its pulse. In its gentle rolling she saw her own strength, for she had subdued its tides; she had drawn its energy together, focused into a column that rose straight and unshaken from her depths to her heights. Her pull eclipsed the moon’s.

The twilight on the water shimmered from her eyes. Those who chose to look closely regarded it with wonder. She knew all this, yet she thought it no great thing to hold the sea.

A tiny cut appeared on her chest one day, mysteriously, as small wounds sometimes do. It was hardly worth a thought, so small was it, but when she put her fingers there she felt a tickle of cool air drawing through, and, fascinated, she left her hand caressing it all day.

In the morning the cut had widened slightly. She stared at it in the mirror for a long time, her eyes squinted into slits, to make some sense of it. The enticing curiosity of the thing sparkled in her mind. That night she lay awake and still, listening to the breath of the ocean whistling gently in and out of her skin.

The third day came, and the cut was now a tear, wider and longer than before. It did not bleed or weep; all that came from it was moonlight and air and the sound of the water. It occurred to her that she should be afraid of this tear in her chest – that surely it presented some danger to her – but she could not bring herself to fear it. Always, always, she had viewed the sea from within. The vision of her own light spilling out into the world was so intoxicating that all anxiety retreated before it.

On the fourth day, and for many days after, she woke with increasing anticipation, hurrying to the mirror to see what had changed during the night. She ran her fingers gingerly over the raw, red flesh at its edges, tender and damp with stinging, salty spray. The breeze that now blew briskly through invigorated all her senses.

The days passed quickly when she was torn open. She surrendered to the new unknown of each moment, until past and future slouched away unheeded. She became doubly, triply alive, a manifestation of the most wonderful beauty. People drew near to bask in the fresh boldness spilling out of her, the strange brilliance in whose rays they felt themselves magnified, emboldened. She laughed, and every ripple of her laughter resounded with the glory of the waves.

It was the sun now, not the moon, that reflected off the water, dancing vibrantly across the crests and gleaming in the foam. Wide open to the world, the sea rejoiced, and the woman loved it more deeply than ever she had when it was contained.

She didn’t consider, enraptured as she was by joy, what foam on the crests might signify.

Perhaps exposing it to the light of others had given the sea a force it hadn’t had before.

Perhaps she had begun to underestimate the sea’s great energy, taking for granted her own power in keeping it at bay.

Perhaps a sea isn’t meant to be trained.

For whatever reason, the tides had slipped free. The waves ceased their gentle rolling and rose to clap together in loud applause. Drunk with freedom, their glee mounted to abandon. The sea crashed into itself and away again, each collision feeding the next, until its rhythmic thrum dissolved into a wild, heady tumult.

At first, the woman tried to ignore the commotion. The sun still shone, after all. She held tight to her all-consuming joy, convinced that no ill could come of such a treasure. And yet she began to feel the prick of doubt. To assuage it, she thought to steal a glance inside as she always used to do. But the perch from which she once could view her fathoms to the floor was now a dizzying, terrifying height. She didn’t wish to see. Instead, she trained her gaze more sharply on the light she threw before her, until the red spots of its echoes burned behind her eyes.

Still, she knew she was eroding. The incessant roaring stole her sleep and confounded her every thought, and the thunder of the waves beating against her shook the ground on which she stood until fissures began to appear around her feet. The sea leapt like a lion hungry for meat. Its unknowable momentum swept her body in courses she couldn’t foresee; she lurched into streets and dark places, and those people who had sought her out were buffeted and bruised by her careening. It was rumored someone drowned inside.

Something had to be done. 

The woman set down her joy and took up her courage. She found a needle, long and sharp, and a cord too strong to sever, and with half her will holding the other half captive, she began to sew shut the wound that let the light out. Her hands trembled on the needle as she thrust it in her chest, drawing tight the cord to once more bind the sea. The fearsome, frenzied waves struck at her as she sewed, but she held fast. Their roaring din diminished stitch by searing stitch. The glow around her dimmed until the last pass blocked its final rays, leaving it to peek once more through her eyes alone, now red with weeping.

When it was done, she looked down into the horrible face of the sea and began her long work of calling back the calm.

I knew her, this woman, when her waters danced in the sun. Through her chest I felt the ocean’s breath upon my fingers. I memorized her light, and I draw from it still when I cannot find my way. If I had my wish, the frolicsome sea would shine forever in her chest, there to share with anyone she chose. But that wouldn’t be an ending. Endings have a way of calling us to account.

I hope she has reclaimed her calm. And I hope there is brightness there as well, in the magnificent place where she is.