surfaced

when i was in college, it was a rite of spring to allow the first deep part of the creek to distract a day-hike and permit a swim. the best spring time swims though were in the unexpected deep swimming holes we found hiking along the mountain rivers.

standing on the edge of an embankment, readying to jump into dark waters for the first time, there's an inexplicable sensation. nervous anticipation. a twinge of fear. a sense of daring. a maternal, discouraging voice of reason. and an overriding pursuit of the thrill.

adrenaline rising.

then feet hit the water. senses come alive. water closes overhead. body engulfed in a rush of endorphins.

down. down. down.

how far to the bottom? will my feet touch soft sand? hard pebbles? or will i just keep falling? for a second fear crowds the rush.

and then, as suddenly as the plummet, i'm rising. i'm reaching up for air. i see the light penetrating the water and i struggle to gauge how far away it is. as if knowing my exact depth will make a difference.

gasping, kicking, and straining: i surface.

from the safety of shore and warmth of my springtime layers, i store the memory of another dive into the dark depths. another dive that stole my breath. another dive that revved my heart. another dive, from which i surfaced.

but there is a small voice that reminds me when i dive into the unknown pools, there's a chance of shallow rocks. and coming up short is something that only happens once.

d: clear, sunny pools of pleasure.
b: i've surfaced.
g: five days deep rather than moments shallow.