fireproof

it’s like getting into the water at the beach: you wade into the surf a bit apprehensive at first, even though you’ve done it many times before, and waves crash not too far in front of you, and the water is actually shockingly cold like it always is, but you suck it up and walk deeper until the water swallows your knees and creeps up your thighs, and then while you’re still trying to ease yourself in, that unexpected wave hits you out of nowhere and soaks you completely and suddenly you’re in much deeper than you originally thought, and now you have two choices: fully commit to the cold and dive in, or chicken out and run screaming back to the safety of warm sand and beach towels. what i would give to have the option of the latter one more time—because im currently adrift in open water on this poor excuse of a boat with no rudder or anchor, miles away from any beach or lifeguard or oversized towels. and my god, it is cold.

i didn’t notice the water seeping through the cracks until it was too late—i suddenly felt cold fingers wrapped firmly around my ankles. wet socks aren’t the most pleasant thing in the world but i wasn’t worried at first; it happens sometimes. ill just squish around for a bit and then my shoes and socks will dry off. but after a while the feeling in my feet begins to fade; my toes curl and prune until the numbness starts to reach upwards and now i can’t feel myself standing anymore. it’s uncomfortable but manageable for a while, but the rising water isn’t satisfied with just ankles and socks. it wants more.

so i grab a bucket and begin the uphill battle of repelling the icy invaders that have laid siege to my lower extremities. at first its not so bad; i make decent progress, scooping and tossing gallons of water over the side of the boat. but my arms begin to slow and my back starts to ache and no matter how much water i scoop out, more pours in to replace it—and somehow it never ends. scoop and toss, scoop and toss—nothing changes. not sure which is worse, the fatigue or the frustration. draining the boat is draining me too.

soon my body begins to resist the elements and the exertion. my arms fall heavy at my sides, my legs cramping and quivering in the cold, my lungs begging for rest, and everything in me screaming for relief, threatening to give in and turn me over to the raging seas—a mutiny in my muscles. visions of floundering in open water triggers my deepest fears. the water inside the boat continues to rise with my anxiety. i kicked the bucket across the floor.

panic gives way to plan b: find the leak.

i scurry around, nose to the ground in my best bloodhound impersonation, sniffing about furiously for any clue or inkling of the hole in the dam, the mole in the org, the chink in the armor that must be the source of all my troubles. what did i do wrong? how did i lose track of the shore so fast? how did i ruin this so badly? but as the water continues to rise, my search yields no results and im in deeper than i was before, expending energy i don’t have to find something i can’t see.

arms and options exhausted, i spend the last of my strength throwing overboard everything that’s not nailed down to try to satisfy the sea and somehow lighten the boat. nothing is safe: my dusty collection of 1981 baseball cards, old backpacks, worn hoodies and dirty socks, my Playstation, dusty karate trophies, used english textbooks, a bag of rocks i collected in Israel, the ugly writing desk in the corner, a busted camera and eight thousand useless photos, nineteen pair of Vans, a stack of my favorite spiral notebooks, a pair of high school/college crushes, the only three friends that i care to text back, two hours of troubled sleep, one fistful of empathy, my last sliver of sanity—all up and over the edge. and somehow, ive managed to feel hollow and still heavy at the same time. maybe the means we use to keep the water out are worse than the water itself.  whatever floats your boat, right?

but we’re past that now. now the only thing that’s still floating somehow is me, and the ship isn’t the only thing ive abandoned. everything i am consists of keeping my head above water and im already losing that battle. the parts of me that aren’t already numb wonder if it’s even worth the struggle.

my lungs fight for one more breath because that’s what lungs are supposed to do, but it doesn’t matter now. water overpowers them too, kicking down the doors and filling all of my empty spaces with dark and cold. everything begins to fade away as my favorite Mac Miller song sloshes around in the back of my head just out of reach… i swear that if i drown i don’t care…  slipping beneath the surface almost feels like being tucked into bed, like going under at the dentist’s office but without the roundtrip guarantee, falling deeper and deeper in slow motion.

just as the last bit of feeling leaves my fingertips, right before my eyes fall asleep one last time, i see it—walking, no swimming towards me? both above and below the surface, closing the distance, coming, arriving. i have water in my eyes and i can’t see straight, but last i checked lighthouses aren’t supposed to walk on water—or anywhere for that matter. but here you are, calling, reaching, flooding in and filling the room with soft light like a perfectly-timed late night text message of encouragement, gently overwhelming me with a genuine smile in a sea full of false faces, walking me back with a welcoming touch when all i feel is falling to the ocean floor. i don’t even possess the strength to kick back against the waves anymore but it doesn’t matter; now we’re surging upwards back towards the surface and the sky, out of breath, out of reasons, and suddenly out of the water.

next i know, im belly up on a beach coughing up half a lung as those same waves that once held me under now play sheepishly at my feet. i can’t tell if the sun or your smile is warming my bones now. dramatic? maybe a little. but until a few moments ago, i was six feet underwater—and now because of you, my most immediate problem is the sand in my shorts.

maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain, or the seaweed boa-constricting my neck as dark waters closed over me; maybe it was the months of sailing in circles on a mangled boat while already waist-deep in water—maybe you really were just in the right place at the right time? maybe it was pure luck? divine intervention? maybe you, out of the kindness of your heart, really did reach into a hurricane and bring me back to shore, daring to dive into deep waters to fetch a floundering sailor who wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the surface again.

i don’t know how to properly thank you. i don’t know where to begin. all i have on hand is driftwood from my sorry little shipwreck, some seaweed still wrapped around my ankles, and a fistful of rocks that were supposed to take me to my resting place.

im no craftsman or artist but i tried my best to fashion you garments fit for a guardian angel, straining to shape soggy shards of wood into a frame for the wings; the kelp i twisted into a seaweed halo to crown your head, and the rest braided into rope to tie the wings between the shoulders that carried me to safety. i stacked the rocks from sand to sky, rebuilding the lighthouse for you to shine brightly in once again. a bit much perhaps—but maybe i just need someone to look up to. the whole thing probably looks really ridiculous: this smelly kelp-covered contraption that i haphazardly strapped to your back without bothering to ask if that was okay—or if you were okay.

it lasts for a short while, seaweed wings watching over me in case the waves come for me again while we try to figure out how to get off this empty beach. until one day the wings accidentally catches on fire, the rock tower crumbles beneath your feet, and my makeshift monument burns to the ground before my eyes. as i watch all my hard work (and part of your clothes) go up in smoke, i realize for the first time that i was wrong.

in a moment a courage, i assumed you were always fearless. in a moment of strength, i assumed you had no weaknesses. in a moment of selflessness, i assumed you were invincible. when you reached down and pulled me out of my darkness, i thought you fell from the sky. i was too busy trying to keep my own mess afloat to see you treading water beside me, swimming up from your own depths that i knew nothing about to rescue me from mine. i was too busy drowning in my own ocean to notice. i just assumed you were fireproof.

so now we both sit empty-handed in the sand: you, singed; me, still soggy and very sorry. guilt sticks to me like my wet clothes, the shame lingers like the stench of the seaweed. it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault, it happens. but i should’ve known better. everybody falls sometimes—but when you took that spill off the stupid pile of rocks that i put you on and out of the neat little box that i put you in, i took the harder fall back to reality. and it stings more than the salt in my eyes.

i was halfway into burying myself in the sand headfirst when i noticed you collecting the charred pieces of wood, the torn rope and the scattered rocks, and you quietly went straight back to work, gently guiding the broken pieces back into place and mending the holes like you’ve done this before. my temporary shelter isn’t even finished yet you’ve somehow summoned one more round of strength and courage to press on, to set sail and get back out on the water. i can only watch in awe. i know you have places to go—i mean i do too, no one wants to be stranded forever—but im not ready to take that plunge anytime soon. but you won’t let that stop you, i know better than that now. maybe ill understand it all on the other side of my storm too. im still new to this sailing thing but you—you’re something else.

so as you board another boat to cross another ocean, my heart sinks for a different reason. but i get it. i understand. it’s calling you too. if the waves can’t hold you back, how could i? i know this isn’t your final resting place and maybe it won’t be mine either.

you’re probably a bit wary of me trying to thank you, and rightfully so, but before you go i want to try one more time—no strings or wings attached.

thank you for swimming with me.

i squint into the burning sunset as your little vessel descends below the horizon out of sight. waves still crash and crackle longingly at my feet.
there’s salt on my cheeks.
my socks are still wet.

“all because of you
i believe in angels
not the kind with wings,
no not the kind with halos;
the kind the bring you home
when home becomes a strange place”

- ‘the good left undone’ by Rise Against