Tides

Drew bolted upright, sheets tangled around his sweat-drenched body. The digital clock glowed 4:13 AM in angry red numerals that pulsed in sync with the throbbing behind his eyes.

Fluorescent lights. Metal desk cold against his palms. Walls painted institutional gray. A stern voice: “Captain Reeves, these reports are unacceptable. The operation failed because of your negligence.”

The dream clung to him like seaweed. Drew moved carefully to avoid waking Sunny. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her face peaceful in the pre-dawn darkness. Real. Solid.

He splashed cold water on his face. The mirror revealed familiar features—sun-weathered skin, bleached hair, the small scar above his eyebrow from a wipeout in Bali. No military uniform. No crew cut. Just Drew Lindsey, former accountant, current surf instructor, living his dream on Sunset Beach.

“Just your brain reminding you what you escaped,” he whispered to his reflection. Five years since he’d abandoned his corporate cage, yet his subconscious still processed past distress through ever more elaborate military nightmares.

Dawn painted the horizon as Drew carried his board across cool sand. The ocean stretched before him, glassy and inviting. His true office. His sanctuary.

Sylas’s silhouette already bobbed beyond the break, dreadlocks distinctive against the brightening sky. Drew paddled out to join him, muscles finding their rhythm, washing away remnants of the dream with each stroke.

“Morning, brah,” Sylas called. “You look like hell.”

“Another stress dream,” Drew admitted. “This time I was some military officer getting chewed out for a failed mission.”

Sylas raised an eyebrow. “Military? Not spreadsheets and performance reviews?”

“Same prison, different uniform.” Drew shrugged, feeling tightness in his right shoulder. “My brain’s getting creative in showing me what I escaped.”

The water shifted beneath them. A perfect swell approached, its surface catching sunrise in patterns no dream could replicate.

Sylas grinned. “Race you to that one.”

They paddled hard. Drew popped to his feet in one fluid motion, finding perfect balance as the wave cradled him. Sylas hooted with joy as they rode the same shoulder.

This was freedom. This was living. Drew surrendered to the wave’s energy.

They paddled back out, chasing the next perfect moment.

“Got those Silicon Valley types at eight?” Sylas asked.

Drew nodded. “Team-building exercise disguised as surf lessons. Six executives trying to prove they’re still young and adventurous.”

“Corporate refugees,” Sylas laughed. “Show them what they’re missing.”

“That’s the plan.” Drew spotted another promising swell. “One more?” Drew only just finished his question when pain shot through his nerves like an electrical current. His right arm seized mid-stroke. Muscles locked from fingertips to shoulder.

Standing at attention. Hours without movement. Captain Reeves, your operational negligence in delta sector cost lives.

The paralysis passed in seconds. Drew resumed paddling, hoping Sylas hadn’t noticed. The wave approached. He pushed to his feet, found his balance.

For one perfect moment, the world narrowed to this single point of existence—the board beneath his feet, the water carrying him through its hollow heart. Nothing else mattered. Not the dreams. Not the spreading numbness. Not the voice that whispered from another world.

This was real. This was his life. Those other fragments—military ranks and failed missions—were just manifestations of his deepest fears of confinement.

Drew carved across the wave’s face, leaning into freedom. Behind him, the nightmare waited, but not for long.

On the shore later, while demonstrating techniques to the group of tech executives, Drew’s right leg seized, muscles locking from ankle to hip.

Rigid military posture. Standing at attention. Captain Reeves, your operational recommendations were inadequate. The mission failed.

Drew disguised the falter as an intentional pause. “That rigid posture? That’s exactly what we want to avoid. Surfing’s about flow, freedom, not tension.”

One executive—a severe woman with steel-gray hair—watched him with unsettling intensity.

“You’re experiencing temporal lobe seizures,” she said matter-of-factly after the others moved toward the water. “Not uncommon with your type of injury.”

Drew froze. “Excuse me?”

“The paralysis.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “I’m a neurologist. Former military. I’ve seen similar cases.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drew said, voice suddenly dry. “I’ve never been in the military.”

She studied him and nodded as if confirming something. “Of course. My mistake.”

That night, fever began. Drew tossed among twisted sheets as Sunny placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

“Maybe it’s just exhaustion,” she suggested, blue eyes soft with concern. “You’ve been pushing yourself hard with these corporate groups.”

“Maybe,” Drew murmured, though the heat consuming him felt different—deeper, more invasive than fatigue.

In his sleep, Drew perceived sitting in a sterile conference room. Men in uniform reviewed his performance on a projection screen. His errors tallied in red.

Your condition is slipping again, Captain Reeves. The swelling should be gone by now, but it has returned. This is acute and disappointing.

He woke gasping. Sunny slept peacefully beside him.

In the coming days, the symptoms worsened. Paralysis struck more often. His balance—legendary among local surfers—faltered.

“You need to see someone about this,” Sunny insisted after he collapsed on their deck, leg seizing beneath him. “This isn’t stress, Drew. Something’s wrong.”

“It’s just stress,” Drew insisted. “Maybe I took on too many corporate clients. Seeing dollar signs or something. It is taking a toll.” Drew paused, remembering how his reflection in the bathroom mirror occasionally showed a gaunt face and a crew cut instead of sun-bleached locks.

The local doctor found nothing physically wrong. “Could be psychological,” he suggested. “Perhaps related to your former career?”

“I left accounting years ago,” Drew said.

“Sometimes our lives catch up with us,” the doctor replied. “Especially if we left something unresolved.”

Drew increased his time in the water, seeking freedom. But his daytime sanctuary couldn’t stop the fever that seemed to spike each night along with the visions of stern military doctors, a hard hospital bed, and binding electrodes.

He’s fighting treatment. Increase the dosage. Captain Reeves possesses critical intelligence. We need to get control of his condition.

Days blurred together. Sunny’s concern deepened as she watched Drew deteriorate and drift mentally. Friends noticed Drew withdraw, his mind slipping elsewhere.

“It’s like you’re trapped in some other world half the time,” Sylas said during a rare good day when they paddled out together. “We’re losing you, brah.”

“Just processing some old trauma,” Drew explained. Sunlight fractured on the water’s surface, each fragment showing a different scene—the beach, the military base, something in between.

Later, storm warnings flashed across Drew’s phone. Dangerous conditions expected. The beach would be officially closed, red flags snapping in strengthening wind.

Perfect.

Drew welcomed this challenge, needed to prove he still mastered the world of sand, waves, and tides.

Sunny tried to stop him. “This is insanity, Drew. The coast guard is advising everyone to stay inside.”

“I need this,” he insisted, board under his arm. “I need to show who I really am.”

“And who exactly is that?” Her voice cracked. “Because I’m not sure I know anymore.”

The beach stood deserted under bruised skies. Waves crashed with monstrous force. Drew pushed through shallows, fighting powerful currents.

Paralysis threatened him at once, creeping from fingertips up forearms. He pushed through it, teeth gritted against pain. The fever burned hotter than ever.

Far from shore, Drew scanned the horizon. The storm’s fury built walls of water. A monster rose before him, dark and powerful. Drew turned his board, paddled hard.

The wave lifted him. Despite paralysis threatening his legs, Drew pushed to his feet. For one glorious moment, he stood in perfect defiance against both ocean’s power and his body’s betrayal.

His legs buckled. The board slipped away. The wave crashed over him, driving him deep into darkness. A clear vision materialized. A sterile room. Military uniforms. Medical equipment. Restraints binding his wrists to metal rails.

“Brain waves fluctuating. Heart rate increasing.”

Water filled his lungs. Pressure built in his chest.

“Captain Reeves, can you hear me? We’re doing all we can.”

The voice grew clearer. The sensation sharpened. Breathing mask forced over his face, a needle in his arm, the taste of chemicals.

Something gripped his ankle, dragged him upward. The surface broke over his face. Air rushed into burning lungs.

“Got you, brah!” Sylas’s voice, strained with effort as he pulled Drew onto his rescue board. “Coast Guard’s on the way. Stay with me!”

The wave’s roar faded to approaching sirens. The beach materialized through rain-blurred vision—first responders running across wet sand, Sunny’s distant figure pushing through their line.

“You’re okay,” Sylas insisted. “Stay with us, Drew.”

But another voice competed for attention—military, authoritative, insisting he was Captain Reeves, that his mind contained vital intelligence.

Drew’s consciousness flickered between realities—the beach and the medical facility, freedom and captivity. Voices spouting military and medical jargon echoed through his mind.

As paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher, Drew made a final choice.

“Sunny,” he gasped, reaching for her hand. Her fingers felt warm against his cold skin, an anchor to this world.

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic. Machines monitored his vital signs. Drew blinked against harsh fluorescent light, something deeply unsettling about the institutional setting. The ceiling tiles had the exact pattern as the rooms in his dreams.

Sunny slept in a chair beside his bed, her hand still holding his. Outside, rain fell on an obscured ocean, droplets creating patterns like code on the glass.

A doctor entered. “Mr. Lindsey? How are you feeling?”

The use of “Mr. Lindsey” and not “Captain Reeves” grounded him. Just a civilian who had a surfing accident.

“I nearly drowned?” Drew managed, throat raw.

“You did,” the doctor confirmed. “If your friend hadn’t come for you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

She explained his condition—water in his lungs, mild hypothermia, physical exhaustion. And something else.

“Your brain scans show unusual activity,” she said, turning a tablet toward him. “Almost like you’re operating in two distinct neurological states simultaneously. Have you experienced any dissociative episodes? Hallucinations?”

Drew hesitated. “Dreams. Military scenarios where I’m some kind of captain with critical information. They’ve been getting more intense, more...invasive.”

“Interesting.” The doctor made notes. “Any history of military service?”

“None. I was an accountant before opening my surf school.”

“Hmm. The military structure represents ultimate control—life and death authority, rigid hierarchy, absolute responsibility. Everything you feared about corporate life, amplified.”

Two months after the accident, Drew stood on the beach at dawn, board under his arm. Sunny waited at the shoreline as he waded into gentler summer swells.

The ocean welcomed him back. His body remembered its rhythms as he hopped up on his board, carving a clean line across an unfolding wave.

“Captain Reeves, return to HQ and immediately report what you know.”

Drew smiled, turning deeper into the wave’s heart.

This is my post. This is where I belong. This is real.

Behind him, the wave closed, water and sun in perfect balance, returning tides making his real dreams come true.