by FRANK CARELLINI

They walked to the edge of the shore.

“It’s just there,” he pointed. “We just have to get to there.”

She was skeptical. She had heard about this place before. Had been warned not to try. Even though it was a stone’s throw away, many had drowned.

He started removing his shoes with his right hand while still holding hers with his left. Uncoiled his socks into balls that fit inside his shoes. Turning to her in an embrace, he reassured, “it doesn’t even go more than waist deep.” He dipped a toe. “And it’s warm.”

At this point in their life, it was necessary to try. Nothing had worked out. Not the counseling. Not the all-inclusive. Nor the extra day per week working from home. Nor the new bed. Nor the burning of the old one.

Laughter streamed from across the water. So clear. It was a bright, yellow sound, like a clavichord. All one could make out as far as the eye could see was a speck, but the sound of joy so clearly tunneled into their ears. So clearly seemed to be the song they wanted to be singing along with.

It didn’t go more than waist deep. It was warm. They were already a foot in.

The day was mild. The drive there had been effortless. Getting to the coffee shop early enough to get one of the vegan bear claws that typically sold out felt like an accomplishment. It felt good to make something work. It felt good to taste thick clumps of iced sugar melt on their tongues.

The day was mild in its bashful sun behind clouds—not so that the day was gray, but so that there was a light-yellow film over the horizon. A warm-but-determined air blew uninvited into their nostrils. They breathed easily. It felt good.

It didn’t go more than waist deep. Their ankles were, at this point, submerged but visible. Split from their bodies by a plane of light. Discolored by the distance to the surface. Unrecognizable. The tide bringing and then taking back heaps of sand that covered their toes.

Her guard was lowering. Now she led him. This felt like an accomplishment. Her hair blew with the gentle breeze. Today, beauty was easy.

They were not more than five or ten paces from the shore. Turning, one could see their arranged clothes—his flannel shirt folded over those brown boat shoes. Her summer coverall coiled like a snake. The day remained cooperative. It had not revoked its promise to be mild.

“Okay,” she said, which was as much a vocalization of trust in him, as it was a reassurance to herself. “Ooh, colder,” she amended as, at knees’ depth, their feet slid into a decline of colder water. Ankles still visible. Not toes.

Now he led. Trying to part the cold water, so that she could step in warmer tracks. He didn’t remove his undershirt. Now the bottom was wet and clinging to his swimsuit.

The day remained cooperative and mild. The stone outcropping, their destination, came sharper into view. The laughter more decipherable. Still, figures of bodies could not be made out. Had this been right? “We’ll only know, if we get closer,” she said, this time purely for her self-assuredness.

They waded for a while, waist deep. Her bellybutton submerged. The coldness of the water did not subside. But remained clear. Clear, but here, a darker blue. No longer the innocent green tinge of inch-deep water, where toes were still part of the body and baby fish nipped at them. Knees still visible. Not ankles.

Weird to study the body in terms of what can be seen, she thought. I want to know my feet.

He looked back. Now she was trailing at an arm length. She moved slower and slower as they waded further in. His hand pushed the water aside, as if that made it easier. There was a degree of calm in the sound his hand made moving in its own personal tide.

She trailed him. He looked back, with a reassuring smile and slight nod. Something smacked against her leg. She startled in a hop. Something slick and muscular had smacked her calf. Some sort of tail whipped around her shin. He looked back. The day remained cooperative. She moved even slower now. Setting into a thicker layer of cloud, the day remained cooperative but turned from yellowish to blueish.

They reached a small incline in the water. Now, her bellybutton was above the surface. Warmer now. Bit of a shiver. Warmer, but still blue.

Laughter became louder, more surrounding, as if raining down on them.

They looked back. The shore, where they left their belongings, was no longer in view.

They turned to look forward. The stone outcrop was no longer in front of them. Without panicking, he looked around, scanned the horizon with his hand to his forehead.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

It was getting darker, but the day remained cooperative. Shards of orange light splayed through splits in the last remaining layers of cloud.

He did another survey. Turning his body in each direction to look. Mistake. That was a mistake. Now he had lost which direction was forward. He did not realize he let go of her hand. He turned and saw a figure maybe twenty paces. To his right. He waded with a bit of haste. Making a small wake in his path.

He approached her. “Didn’t even realize you’d wandered off,” he said. She didn’t reply but stared downward. The day was cooperative; the water remained clear. But these were not her legs. She did not know how to operate them. He reached for her hand. Cold. He put it under his arm to warm.

The stone outcropping had reappeared in the horizon. Closer, they could hear laughter but also crying. Or perhaps it was just hard laughter. The moon was at the mouth of the water, transparent and huge. It rose. It was kind in lighting the surface of the water, which remained still. But for the waves he made with his hand.

He looked back at her. He loved her more in this moonlight. “Like a mermaid,” he said with a slight laugh. “Just a little further.”

No storm in the night. It felt good to make something work. Sun had risen. They could start to make out trees on the island. Good fruit. Likely by tomorrow.

Trees, but also thickets. That wasn’t fruit. But beautiful flowers. Weird. They said there would be others.

Ankle deep now. Water back to yellowish. And those small fish. Nice to see them again.

A plank of wood floated by. He laid her onto it. She had grown weak. Didn’t notice those streaks of gray before. Her mouth uttered something, but he couldn’t make out the words over the loud streams of laughter. Must need water, he thought. He took handfuls of water from the surrounding sea to her mouth. She coughed. It burned.

They got to shore. Two perfectly arranged outfits. Great, they got his request for the seersucker suit. Wasn’t sure the email went through. He shed his bathing suit. White, pruny thighs and ass. Shook the sand from his groin. Put on the seersucker suit. Comes with a hat. How neat.

She had not gotten up off the plank. He was in the mood for a smoothie. The menu online said that Wednesdays was guava pineapple. He would find help after his smoothie. One of the counseling sessions had taught him to “practice self-love.” He found himself laughing. Loud. With the others. Wow, this seersucker suit fits perfectly. Who would’ve thought. A thirty-eight regular.

The bar was ornate layers of rattan. Thatched roof. So authentic, he thought. No bartender. Just a tray of the Wednesday special. Piece of pineapple sliced to fit on the rim. Cherry too. He drank and it cooled his insides. He could feel the crushed ice move down his esophagus. Loved that feeling. Thursday special was mango passionfruit. That would be a good one.

Oh, he remembered. Let me find help. No attendant at the medic tent. Autonomous robot vacuum in the lobby. Figured he’d check-in while he was here. Rooms looked nice. Two double beds. Jacuzzi hot tub. Rattan vanity.

Wrote note “need help” and left at front desk. Didn’t bother to ring the bell.

Hard to find his way back to her. Only directions were to the wellness center, restaurant, and main lobby.

He passed surfboards for rent. Maybe tomorrow.

The day had been cooperative. Though, bit of a haze. He matted zinc sunscreen onto his face. Read it was safer for reefs.

He made his way back to shore.

Plank of wood was not there. Neither was she. Her perfectly folded outfit sat alone. Seersucker jumper. He thought she would look so cute in it. He looked toward the horizon. The brim of his hat was kind in blocking the sun.

There, in the distance, she was floating on the plank of wood. The tide had taken her back into sea. He couldn’t really get his new shoes wet. And he wouldn’t be back for luau hour.

She drifted and drifted.

He turned to go find a piece of fruit.

Ω

With previous or forthcoming publications in Bayou, Meridian, and Barzakh, Frank Carellini makes poetical and visual works out of the Hudson Valley.

Brandon Smallwood writes: “Personal Motivation” depicts a person twice: once in the mirror, dressed up and pointing, symbolizing confidence and aspiration, and again outside the mirror, the same person looking inward, reflecting on their goals. This dual image conveys self-inspiration and introspection, highlighting the power of personal motivation, while also sending the message that you are your best motivator.