Senses of Peace

Licking my lips, I couldn't be sure whether the salty taste was from the breeze of the ocean before me or from the countless tears I had cried. I grabbed fistfuls of sand, trying to get a grip on anything, but it ran out of my palms like an hourglass.

I thought I was the kind of person who was prepared for anything. Anxiety kept me thinking about the worst of the worst-case scenarios. But I never truly believed something like this could happen to me. I was sitting on a tropical island right before the crashing waves of the ocean, my favorite place in the world, and I couldn't hear any of it.

After the accident that stole my hearing, my friends were more supportive than I ever could have asked for. When I was fully healed and slowly relearning the world, they thought this trip, to my favorite place, would be good for me. A fresh start of a vacation. Honestly, I did, too. How could any of us have known how miserable it would make me? For every voice to be muffled, for the ocean to be silent.

I had my hearing aids, and I was, of course, beyond grateful for them. But sounds were different with them, sharper. It almost hurt to hear.

I took a break from the endless parties and pool-lounging to come reflect on the beach. Alone. But I broke down when the crash of foamy waves against the grainy shore didn't greet me. I attempted to turn on my hearing aids but I couldn't stand to hear the annoying squawks of the birds piercing my ears like sirens.

Despite my distraction, I didn't miss the movement in my peripheral. A man in board shorts and big sunglasses was beginning to sit down beside me. Likely some lonely bachelor on a guys' trip looking to take advantage of the sad, beautiful woman sobbing on the beach. I bet his buddies convinced him he could come over and make me feel better, so much better that I would follow him back to his hotel room at the resort.

While I could still speak, I was rarely brave enough to find my voice in public. I would order for myself at restaurants and whatnot but didn't purposely start up any conversations with strangers. What if my voice came out a jumbled mess? I knew it wouldn't, realistically; I had been speaking all my life, and the hearing aids helped me to even hear my words. But anxiety is hardly ever realistic. Instead of telling him to "shoo" with my voice, I raised a hand in his direction and shook my head. He didn't seem to take the hint, immediately jumping into conversation with me. I read his lips, the devices in my ears still turned down. I could just faintly hear the vibration of his voice. "Hey, are you alright? I just thought I'd check on you, you sounded upset." I sounded upset? I'm sure I looked the part, too.

Clearly, I was going to have to use my voice. I cleared my throat. "Go away." I cleared it again out of habit. "I don't need someone to try to pick me up right now." A little harsh perhaps.

But he was persistent. "Oh, no, that's really not what I was trying to do, I just...I thought if you were upset you might want some company, or someone to talk to, I --" Pink tinged his ears, and I think it was more akin to embarrassment than sunburn. Guilt crept up just a bit as he floundered. And it was getting hard to keep track of what he was saying as he mumbled and sputtered.

"Hey, I'm sorry. It's...it's okay. I could actually use the company, I suppose." I didn't really want the company but I guess it couldn't hurt. I was on vacation, I was supposed to be mingling with strangers, right?

He rubbed the back of his neck, I'm guessing out of nerves or relief, as he settled back beside me. "So, do you want to talk about why you were crying?" Silence stretched between us. "Or we could talk about anything else," he suggested. It almost made me laugh.

Here was my chance. I could air my grievances with no consequence. I wouldn't have to feel complaintive or ungrateful the way I did when I talked to my friends. It was more than likely that I would never see this guy again. What better time to go for it? "I don't like the way the ocean sounds through my hearing aids," I answered, immediately hating the way it sounded. At least I could somehow hear the ocean. At least I could afford to take a trip and be near the ocean. At least my hearing was the only thing taken instead of my life. But none of that made me feel better. Well, better, but not okay, not whole.

"I'm really sorry." He looked it. Genuinely. Most people said sorry as a platitude. "Is that new for you?"

I nodded. So far, so good. Get it all off your chest. "Yeah. I lost my hearing in an accident a couple of months ago. I'm fine, it's just a lot of getting used to. If I turn them up too loud, the birds numb my ears, but if I turn them too low, the ocean is just, like, this dull roar of white noise."

His hands were busy in his lap, and I almost felt bad for unloading on him. For burdening him with this information. But he did ask, after all. "I kind of get what you're going through." My eyes rolled of their own volition. A few people had said that to me, and none of the stories had resonated with me thus far. I sympathized with their struggles, of course, but no one I knew had lost one of their senses. "I lost my sight about a year ago." Until now, apparently.

"Oh," came my genius reply. That explained the sunglasses, though so did our tropical setting and the sizzling sun.

"I cried, too, the first time I came back to the ocean and couldn't see it," he confided. His 'gaze' never left me as he spoke. I turned my hearing aids up just a bit, ignoring the harsh, overexposed noises around me.

"Really?" This unknown man had just humbled me into one-word responses.

He nodded, leaning back on his hands and raising his face to the sun. "Yeah, it really sucked for a while. I was really mopey." His face tensed briefly. "Not to say that you are being mopey. It's completely understandable for you to be upset."

I sighed. I am, though; I'm being mopey. "No, I am a little mopey, you're right. I'm supposed to be having fun, on vacation. I know I should be thankful I still have some of my hearing left..." He stayed silent, letting me think it over. "I'm just not good with change."

"Well," he offered, "stick with me. I'll be your ears, and you can be my eyes." A sly smile formed across his face. "I'm sorry, that was cheesy. I swear I didn't come over here to hit on you." My chest loosened a bit as I let out a sigh/laugh. "I just wish someone had come up to check on me when I was having a crisis on the beach. Cheer me up, you know? It's just fate that we're going through similar stuff. Who would've thought we'd both be here, now?" He laughed in spite of himself. "Again, my apologies for making it sound so corny."

"You did cheer me up," I admitted. "I guess I could keep you around for a bit." I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hands. Staring at the profile of his jaw, the sun washing over his features, I said, "It would be nice to talk with someone who gets...it." I finished vaguely but was sure he understood. I was close to entering an uncomfortable amount of time spent staring at his face, and though he couldn't see me gawking, I was sure he could feel it.

"Let's start with tackling the ocean, then. Just because you can't hear it the way you want to doesn't mean it isn't still available for you." His words washed over me, an idea I already knew but was too stubborn to really let sink in. "We can still feel it. So, let's start there." He held out a hand for me as he stood from his place in the sand.

My heart pounded. An old thing experienced in a new way. The new way of things. A stranger by my side helping me face it. It was all a little strange, a little different. But maybe change wasn't so bad if you made the most of it. The ocean didn't change, just me, and it didn't care that I had. Its waves were still aching to wrap me in salt and foam, letting me know I was always welcome here. As I looked at it with what felt like new eyes, I realized the sounds weren't as harsh as they had seemed before. They were almost blended. So, I turned up the sound, grabbed a blind man I didn't know by the hand, and ran with him into the arms of the ocean. I was on vacation after all.