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.

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