My Cell by the Sea.

Have you ever been trapped under a wave?

You're standing in the foam, trying to transcend, because oceans are sublime. You listen to the sea gulls, hear the waves grating their heavy weight on the sand, and you close your eyes. The feeling of the wild ocean wind is different, isn't it? It's not like the old woman wind that sweeps your face with a wiry broom in the winter, or the shy wind that comes sometimes at night on the hills. It's wet, and wild, and sad. You're standing there, letting the ocean lull you into subliminality,  and then the salty wall hits your head, and you're a klutz already, so you tumble into the wave, trying:

 (1) not to breath,
 (2) to keep your eyes closed because you are wearing contacts,
 (3) to sense the direction that is up, and
(4) to get your head up enough to no longer be under water,

and those are too many items to perform all at once, so you fail a couple of times until suddenly you are standing, gasping, drenched, and surprised by what just happened and by your relative okay-ness. Every inhalation is divine, every exhalation is a prayer. You are safe. You look around. You see the ocean, as it was, before the mad scramble under water, and it is the same. You are different. You see it as you never could have, not before. Now, you know the power of the ocean a little better. You feel the danger seething from its ripples, and that is when you transcend.

You feel it vibrate across your skin, down into the tips of your hairs, and it is electric. Perhaps you are bound by the laws of the universe to remain in the Earth, but perhaps you are part of the greater universe in a more intrinsic way, and perhaps your geographical location seems suddenly to be without meaning. Perhaps time becomes as tangible as it is constant.

Meanings become clear. Paths become straight. The proximity of Life to Danger is a sweet contrast, and you begin to wonder:

What more could there possibly be?