Washed Up

Buoyancy

Ross

Buoyancy. Noun. [boi-uhn-see]. The tendency of a body to float when submerged in water.

On the first day of summer, I have this tradition of going to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic. There's something reassuring about the sameness of the island: The sun always rises, the first day of summer always come, and the waves always lap rhythmically on the beach. Usually, this comforts me. Today, it ticks me off.

I sit on the first step down to the beach, fingers picking at a loose splinter of wood, and I watch the sun rise. It looks the same as it did last year, and every year before this. Last year, I brought Ivy to watch the sunrise with me in memory of the very first time I came here on the first day of summer with Mom, when I was five. I haven't missed a sunrise since. As I watch the sunrise today, however, it doesn't fill me with that same sense of peace. Instead, I feel like I'm stuck in the movie Groundhog's Day, living the same summer over and over again.

I'm tired of this same-old life I've lived for 24 years. My family has always lived on this island; my parents met here, fell in love here, got married here, and decided to raise their family here. And I do love the island, but nothing ever changes. I feel like I'm stranded inside a cage, but as I keep growing, it has become too small for me.

I walk down the wooden steps to the beach and sigh as my feet hit the sand. I strip off my t-shirt and leave it on a stake by the stairs and stretch my arms and legs. I walk to the edge of the water, my toes sinking into the cold sand, still wet from high tide, and I start to jog along the edge of the ocean, my feet pounding on the sand just beyond where the waves hit.

I can't get that letter from the world service internship out of my mind. I'm itching to get off the island, and this is my ticket out. It covers all the costs of travel and gives me a stipend to spend on food and housing in exchange for community service in whatever countries I live in. If it weren't for the three kids, I would be gone tomorrow.

My pace quickens and I lengthen my stride, my jog turning into a solid run. Every day of the year, except when the weather won't permit me, I come to the beach and run a few miles on the sand. With no tourists on the beach and no lifeguarding to be done, I'm free to actually enjoy the salty air and waves. I glance at the ocean every so often to see if I can catch a glimpse of the pod of dolphins that sometimes comes close to the shore in the morning, but I don't see anything but whitecaps.

As I run, I feel my chest start to heave and my breath quickens. I should probably slow down so I can run my usual three miles, but it feels so good to pour all of my energy into something, all my pent up frustration and this feeling of being stuck and paralyzed in a fate I don't want. On this beach, I'm free to run as far and as fast as I wish. Here, there's no drunk dad passed out on the couch. Ivy's not crying and asking when Mom's coming back. Mason isn't breaking everything in the house, acting out to get Dad's attention. Sammy isn't growing into an adult before his time. Out here, it's just me.

And the herd of wild horses running before me. I skid to a stop, sucking in harsh breaths that scrape my lungs, and watch as a handful of horses, manes and tails billowing in the wind, sprint past me. Something must have startled them, but as I look up the beach, I can see nothing except for a handful of sea gulls. I remain still as they run past me, so close that I can feel the thunder of their hooves on the sand. To them, I am nothing but a part of the beach.

Once they fade into the scenery of the beach, I continue on--this time, at a more manageable pace. As I go, I keep an eye out for whatever it was that disturbed the horses. I've only ever seen a handful of people on the beach this early, so I can't imagine what startled them.