The Weight of Water

The sea was calm that morning, with whitecaps emerging in the distance. The horizon stretched endlessly in all directions, cold and relentless. Gray sky met gray water, and somewhere in between was my lifeboat, half-swallowed by waves.

Despite the motionless oars and the salt-crusted handles, I refused to give in. My hands, blistered, bled, and went numb, but I persisted. I tried to count time by the sun's movements, but even that rhythm eventually felt off. Some days, the light never came at all.

There’s a special kind of peace you make with yourself when the ocean decides to keep you. It isn’t thunderous. It’s patient. It laps at the edges of the boat, licking its way inside one breath at a time. I used to panic when it pooled around my ankles, but now I just watched the ripples, wondering how long it would take before the sea took me below the surface and into her depths.

The water smelled like rotting fish. My lips were cracked open, stinging with every gust of wind. I thought of all the things I’d left unsaid to no one in particular—because there was no one in particular left to say them to.

When the first drops of rain came, I didn’t flinch. They fell like punctuation marks, steady and deliberate. Soon, the drizzle turned into a downpour as the sky opened up. The wind screamed, and my hair lashed against my face angrily. I tried shielding the wind with my scabbed hands, but it was pointless.

The waves grew teeth. They struck the boat repeatedly, snapping at its sides. Water gushed in, cold as bone. Every time a wave washed over me, I prayed it would be the last. My body swayed with the motion, causing my stomach to turn.

Go on then, I whispered. You’ve wanted me for this long.

The next wave hit harder. The world tilted. I went under.

For a heartbeat, it was peaceful. The water muffled the wind, the fear, the thoughts. I could almost mistake it for heaven. But then came the burn in my chest, the animal instinct clawing for air. I opened my mouth and swallowed salt. It seared my throat, filled my lungs.

Something inside me, although stubborn and small, refused to give up. My legs thrashed until my head broke the surface. I coughed, choked, gasped, and clung to the warped edge of the lifeboat. The storm roared above me, furious that I had come up for air. But I had, and that was a victory in itself.

When the sun began to set, the ocean was glass. No waves. No sound. No seagulls. No proof I was alive except the ache behind my ribs. The lifeboat was barely holding together. My arms trembled as I tried to scoop water out with my hands. My fingers looked foreign, wrinkled, and gray.

That’s when I heard it—a low, distant hum of something mechanical. I froze. My mind played tricks before, whispering sounds that weren’t there, voices that weren’t real. But this one grew louder, steadier.

I squinted through the fog. There was a flicker of orange paint, a shape cutting through the mist. I wanted to call out, but my voice cracked. I tried again, barely a rasp. The shape drew closer until I saw a small, rusted fishing boat, chugging along as if it had all the time in the world.

Someone stood at the bow. A woman, maybe in her fifties, her hair tied back under a weathered cap. She spotted me and raised her hand.

When her boat pulled alongside, she leaned over the railing. “You look cold,” she said, voice rough as sandpaper.

I tried to answer, but nothing came out of my parched mouth. She threw a rope instead. “Grab on.”

It took me three tries to hold on tight enough. My hands shook so badly I thought I’d drop it. She pulled me in, cursing under her breath about my “skinny self.” When I finally landed on the deck, the warmth of the solid wood nearly broke me.

She crouched beside me, her shadow cutting the setting sun. “You been out here long?”

I shook my head. Then nodded. Both felt true.

She pressed a dented flask into my hands. “Water,” she said. “Don’t gulp it.”

It tasted like metal and mercy.

We didn’t speak for a while. She busied herself with ropes and nets, moving with the ease of someone who’d spent her whole life reading the moods of the sea. The radio crackled in the corner, muttering faint static. I sat wrapped in a blanket that smelled of smoke and diesel, watching her work.

“You’re lucky,” she said finally. “Most don’t make it out this far and survive.”

“I wasn’t trying to…make it out this far,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

She looked up then, eyes sharp and soft at once. She didn’t ask what I meant. Instead, she nodded toward the horizon. “See that line? That’s land. You’ll get there soon.”

I followed her gaze. The faint outline shimmered—a trick of distance, maybe, but real enough to believe in for a second.

“Why did you stop?” I asked.

Her mouth twitched into a half-smile. “I once found myself lost at sea, much like yourself. I made a vow to venture out a little every day to make sure the ocean claims no one else.”

She went back to her nets, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. The sound threaded through the air, fragile but persistent.

I reflected on how long I’d waited for someone to truly see me—not to fix or save me, just to acknowledge my existence. And then she arrived, not questioning how I got here but simply sitting beside me in the middle of the ocean. Her presence was a balm to my weary soul.

Hours passed. The coastline grew closer, the air warmer. She offered me half a sandwich, and we ate in silence, the kind that didn’t suffocate.

When the first gull cried overhead, something inside me loosened.

The woman wiped her hands on her trousers and nodded at me. “You’ll be all right.”

Maybe she believed it. I desperately wanted to.

As we neared the harbor, the sea shifted beneath us—still deep, still unpredictable, but less like a threat and more like a living thing that carried us both. I watched the reflection of the orange sky ripple across its surface, breaking and reforming, just like breath.

She cut the engine. The boat drifted gently into the dock.

I turned to thank her, but she was already busy tying ropes, humming that same steady tune.

“Take care now,” she said without looking up.

I cautiously stepped onto the weathered pier, my legs trembling with a mix of anticipation and lingering fear. The sharp, invigorating scent of salt and seaweed clung to my skin, filling my senses with the essence of the ocean. Meeting the sea, the sun scattered shimmering patches of gold and silver across the gentle ripples of the water, creating a breathtaking display.

For the first time in a long while, I let it touch me.

The waves continued to whisper—gentler now, as if they understood I was no longer afraid.