Wobbly Waves

Of the many horrors that haunt me, one is the sea is, which is why I was very happy with the river-ride. It was definite, as opposed to the infinite. But this morning, we visited the Majorda Beach to greet the Arabian Sea, which makes Goa, Goa. Needless to say, my stomach was rumbling, and I could not imagine myself getting wet for more than a minute. In fact, it did get worse, even as my friend held on to me with all her compassion, for she loves the sea, I felt the feeling which comes each time the sand slips from under my feet.

But miracles happen. I, of all people, very well know it. I was severely pukish, and right then she told me to look at the light moon right opposite the bright sun, which I had earlier introduced to her. A very faint moon, playing hide and seek with daylight, with the clouds for company. I looked, and then she said, 'look at the distant ship'. I obeyed. Left without a choice, one often does that. Then she went on to grip me tighter and almost as if she had rehearsed this earlier, 'Kents, look at the mid-section. It is the artist's space. What happens to you when you get a page to write or a book to colour -- still.' She continued, 'the waves are only the surface, unsettling, fighting, but at the core there is rest'. Deep. I was in deep, deep shit. Philosophy amidst waves. 

I cursed her in vernacular and that calmed me. It actually made sense. The frothy white waves attacking me could not really eat me up, could they? Gosh, G is incorrigibly correct, each bloody time! This time, some kind of spirit took over me, and I held her and said, 'Let's walk further'. We did, she smiled. The back waves seemed like authoritative pythons rolling its way to swallow me, but I said to myself, it is not anything but water. She now warned me of three waves were coming up, rather aggresively and that I should walk back. Hold on. Patience.

I let go her arm, and said 'let me face it. What would you say if I suddenly decide to take a jump into the sae?' She was flabbergasted. 'I will say when I see you jump!'

'But I may not survive, no? Tell me', I nagged. She gave up, 'Do whatever you want man!' All this took part in the fraction of a second, mind you. The three waves were nearing. I let go of her, and walked forwards, obviously not jumping, only because that it would ruin my wonderful hair. Earlier, she taught me a tactic, 'just shift left or right if the sand underneath deepens too much.' I am a great instruction follower. Staunchly, I vigorously, looked at the froth attack right in the eye, and stepped ahead, one at a time. The waves hit me well over my knees, and when they returned defeated, I looked back. 'I did it, dude!'

As I went back to her, more or less victoriously, she smiled and screamed, 'Proud of you! You did it, all by yourself!'

We bye-d the mighty Arabian together, and me, as I walked back in the weight of wet pajamas and sandy slippers, leaving distinct marks on the beach, I, I was all the while thinking, and I thought I was wobbly?