He stood there, on the rocks, contemplating the ocean. This ocean that had touched so many shores, where so many dreams were dreamt, in so many different languages. This ocean to which he felt so connected, his partner from other lives, so familiar, yet mysterious. To him, unknown.
He remained there, standing, staring, observing the rythmic comings and goings. He was drawn to it by its intensity, the movement of the waves. He tried to understand why. He listened attentively to its sounds.
He imagined the pleasure of being covered by its water, feeling its temperature, submerging in its depth, allowing his body to be carried by its currents. He could guess there were currents, deep currents.
Swimmers faced such currents. He had seen them. Diving from the rocks, they took the leap. With their furious first strokes, they confronted the tides, tamed the currents. They came back exhausted, breathless and exhilarating. But he was no swimmer. He had been contemplating this ocean for quite a few years. He heard its calling. It filled his monotonous life, his dreams, his fantasies.
He took a step closer. He looked down, closed his eyes, heard its voice, crying his name, insisting. He stood there at the edge, felt the breeze, licked the salt it brought to his lips, savoured it for a moment. He opened his eyes and felt them stung by the Sun. He drew his breath, turned around, and walked away.