Home for the soul

I put my feet into the Pacific Ocean last week. As that first tiny wash of salt water ran over my winterized, sweat sock laden feet, I couldn't help but but breath out. It was a deep breath that began at my intestines and ended at my tear ducts. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been at water’s edge.
A day later I went all the way in. I think I was the only one in there over the age of 35. It didn't matter. I was leaving later that night and I didn't know when I'd be back. I needed to at least squat until a wave broke over my head. I got up the gumption to dive through a few waves. It was just as I remembered it to be. Peaceful, weightless, innocent, other worldly and cold - shrinkage cold. That didn't matter either. As I was submerged, my soul took a deep breath. I was home. It had been so long. Too long.
Later that day when I was packing for the red eye back...home. I could feel the salt from the water clinging to my skin as it rubbed against my clothes. I decided not to shower. I wanted to bring the pacific back east. When I walked through the doorway to my apartment I thought about showering. I napped instead. I enjoyed being cradled by what remained of The Pacific.