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Happy place

The water is cool with smooth rolling waves, like a child's painting.

I like to swim far away quickly - far from the maddening crowd, the couples sharing salt water kisses and kids likely having a pee, as they pause for a few minutes, half-smiling, not even a little bit guilty.

I like to be alone in the sea until it is only the sky, the horizon and the masses are little nondescript specs.

This is my happy place, my Zen, my cloistered liquid monastery.

As a kid, I was more in the water than out of it, basically living in the West End YMCA pool, when I was not at the Gladstone Library; Sometimes changing it out for the freezing waters of Christie Pits public pool during hot summer days, hurling myself off the tallest diving board, scared to death but doing it anyway. My parents would rent a cottage at Suable Beach for two weeks every summer and I just loved losing myself, coming out with fingers as wrinkled as raisins, exhausted, and contented.

Then for a period, my liquid love and I were apart. We had a break. We were seeing other matters. I was seeing a river regularly at that time, but it was too shallow to really capture me.

I only truly returned to water when I met my love. We now live about a 15 minute walk to the Mediterranean sea. Yes, I pinch myself. It is surreal.

And I greet my old friend with arms outstretched, eyes to heaven, floating on its surface, its stream of molten steel absorbing me, until it is I who is the little tiny speck - a little dot on the massive sweeping expanse.