I am seeing through the eyes of a man in a business suit clutching a leather briefcase. Disoriented and completely unaware of my surroundings for the moment I look down at my shoes; fancy. I rub at the crinkles in the sleeve of my shirt, smudged with dirt. I am important, or I was once.
Now I am not important. I am just fucked, but the business-man-me doesn't know that yet.
A sound distracts me and I look up for the first time, finding myself stuck in sand, the sky's hues so mighty and imposing that I press my hand to my chest to feel the pulse of my heavily beating heart before wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with a torn cloth. Almighty waves rise up out of the swollen belly of the sea, each formation so magnificent, so unique and so frightening I am transfixed, my feet turning to wet sand and dripping away as the water recedes, sucked hundreds of metres out only to be returned in crashing surges that push me down, and turn me over and over. I tumble head-over-heels, pushed by invisible hands, pulled by invisible, beckoning fingers. I bite my lip really hard. My head is pressed against the sand by the same hands that pull at me, ripping my tailored suit off my waterlogged frame as I am flailing, scooping hopelessly from beneath trying to snatch a breath.
My feet are still stuck and I enter a state of panic. My movements become more frantic, my body contorting and convulsing fitfully. And through it all, I can think only of this: that the sea holds no prejudices. It does not scrutinise in selecting its victim be they convicted murderer, CEO, child or mother. What the sea wants, the sea will have.
A sound distracts me and I look up for the first time, finding myself stuck in sand, the sky's hues so mighty and imposing that I press my hand to my chest to feel the pulse of my heavily beating heart before wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with a torn cloth. Almighty waves rise up out of the swollen belly of the sea, each formation so magnificent, so unique and so frightening I am transfixed, my feet turning to wet sand and dripping away as the water recedes, sucked hundreds of metres out only to be returned in crashing surges that push me down, and turn me over and over. I tumble head-over-heels, pushed by invisible hands, pulled by invisible, beckoning fingers. I bite my lip really hard. My head is pressed against the sand by the same hands that pull at me, ripping my tailored suit off my waterlogged frame as I am flailing, scooping hopelessly from beneath trying to snatch a breath.
My feet are still stuck and I enter a state of panic. My movements become more frantic, my body contorting and convulsing fitfully. And through it all, I can think only of this: that the sea holds no prejudices. It does not scrutinise in selecting its victim be they convicted murderer, CEO, child or mother. What the sea wants, the sea will have.
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