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Drowning My Fears

 

foam swirl in the ocean seen from above
Photograph: Matheo JBT/Unsplash


I always thought that dying would be panicked and painful. That lifetimes would flash before me—memories of moments long forgotten. I expected it to be so sad and lonely that I’d wish for one more—breath, hug, day, kiss goodbye. 

I was wrong. Dying is rather peaceful if you let it be.

I learned this on a random summer day in my youth. It was supposed to be a typical day. All days are supposed to be ordinary until suddenly they’re not.

Dad and I took our usual trip to the beach. We’d spend the day enjoying the sun, playing in the sand, pausing the mundane. One of my favorite games was standing in the shallow spots near the shore and jumping over incoming waves. Dad enjoyed this too.

I remember holding his hand and waiting for another wave to appear, but when it did, it was different. I’m unsure whether it was too high or forceful or if something disturbed it a little more than others. Perhaps it wasn’t different. Maybe we were different.

Whatever it was, it was enough to tip the world. I went from hopping over the waves to being submerged.

Suddenly, Dad’s hand was gone, and there was only me. Then, as cliche as it sounds, everything stopped.

No sound. No breath. No life before me or behind me.

The stillest silence. The fullest peace.

I’m pretty sure the ocean ceased moving and embraced me. Bore witness to my transcendence.

I rested there unmoving, staring at the sky, an entombed grayness above me. Somewhere in the corner, the sun gazed down upon me, a yellow orb drifting just out of reach. I couldn’t feel its warmth. I couldn’t feel anything at all.

No heat. No cold. No fear. No soul.

I was one with the ocean. Dissolving into the universe. It was the most peace I’d ever known. There was safety in this tomb of water.

I didn’t move. I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening to me. I was somewhere between the folds of space.

I was content to fuse into the sea, but Dad was intent on saving me. Two hands pierced through the water and grabbed me, pulling me back from eternity. For the second time in my life, I had to be extracted from the womb. I guess birth is foreign to me.

His hands transferred sound back to my ears and sensation back into my limbs. It was then that I could feel—the air, the salt stinging my eyes, the water in my lungs. I remember coughing as Dad carried me back to safety.

Or was it danger? By saving me, he’d inadvertently put me back in harm’s way. Brought me back to a life of fear and sadness.

I now wonder if that day at the beach was the day I got mixed up. Since then, I’ve been hunting for tranquility, but it continues to evade me.

They say that the purpose of life is to live it well so that, in the end, we’ll be ready to let go and cross over. But maybe that’s all wrong. Maybe the more you live, the scarier death becomes. As time passes, you begin to understand what it’s like to miss things. You become attached to the idea of a self, and you long for immortality.

We’ve been conditioned to seek life, but I’ve never been closer to peace as I was when I approached death.



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