Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

(written on the run as promised)

August 18, 2019

The waves splashing ashore. With an east wind turning up blouses, the women should’ve been more careful of their wardrobe. As the seashell’s aroma bring in their expired life at sea, the sand as its canvas held ground to where they lie. Wave after wave crashing – the sea weeds beach themselves upon damp sand. As gawking eyes look past shallow waters, the crowd as one share concern for an unlearned rafter.

Out of their peripheral was a man standing at the shore; eyeing what float atop the waters, exposing his palms, “come here, near, I ask,” he said.

The people watching at the dampened sand grounds await his move. Lost drifters with no paddle, no oar, but the wind to take them where doth please. A collective breath from the standing, inhaling as their ear’s intake fear. It wasn’t his to share, but for the people who’d never dare.

As the man and woman on the raft glance back from their sail’s pull, they begin to float into the blue, not trusting so cruel. Their faces of a beggar – he knew they’d die of oncoming weather. He takes one step into the ocean blue, defying his color beneath the hue. Another step as those watching look closer; they veer back, understanding he’s heading into the water.

“The negros can’t swim. What’s gotten into him?” A man shouts.

Another step puts him above ankles deep. Now the crowd together watches his feet. A foot before another, following that foot forward, and no stress shown to even bother.

“You’re reaching the deep end man, we’re OK, let us drift with the wind,” says the man in the boat.

As his vessel moves through oncoming waves, the only thing wet is below his feet. One after one with his steps, now into the deep end and not even there he sinks. Far enough to drown; unbelievably he floats, standing atop closer to their boat.

“Do you need us to throw the rope?”

Silence – assuming a nope. Out fourscore yards as he goes; deeper into the blue and now remote. What could it be holding him up?

“There’s a high tide dude. You must give up,” shouts a man at shore.

One who’d do so and remand. In a collective disbelief. An origin of space where many are took – they first couldn’t breathe. Two feet above water, he stood as though walking on shallow grounds. As if the sea floor come up to bore; where was life needing water near shore.

As the waves splash and pass.

They’d recede and moist his calves.

Foot after foot he walks.

Into the blue where sharks stalk.

Where is life if the sea ground is up?

They’re waiting for a one and only to breathe luck.

You’ve got to be crazy and have ran amuck.

But crazy is standing still as the drifters are fucked.

Trusting the brightest above.

A big fish moon holds him up.

And there a negro life-guard.

He can’t swim — but saves by showing up.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd

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