When I arrived at Cape Cod one week ago, I was so exhausted, I slept for hours, I felt somnambulistic for days upon days. Finally, I could think. That is both good and bad. I would rather be with the sea, in the sea, by the sea without thought, but I can not edit unless I think, so I think, I wrack my brain, I change this word for that word, I rearrange sentences, I ask, “is this, or is this not the predicate nominative?” I decide my editor will straighten out such details upon my return.
What inspires me most is the water, and the water’s edge. I walk Dowses Beach from jetty to jetty. I watch the waves. I swim between jetty to jetty, and back again. It is one hell of a swim. Very few of us meet the challenge of a cold, turbulent ocean. I love the challenge. Even when I feel exhausted, I swim. I break through the waves, swim in front of the white buoy, breathe rhythmically, and find my rhythm. I find the rhythm of the sea. Swimming is not a sport. Swimming is a holy experience. It is like praying. I do my share of praying. Mostly, I pray for others, for the world. I swim for myself. Swimming is a selfish act. I feel it is my birthright. Like breathing, swimming puts me in touch with the perfection, and the gift of life.