Thalassophobia

The graveyard stretched out along the ocean as far as his eyes could see. He viewed the washed-out words and whispering waves while wandering a few more steps on the withered grass. Tickly, grippy grass massaged the bottoms of his little sneakers and itchy crunchy sand clung in between the grooves in the sole. In his hand, he grasped a dull yellow pointless shovel. He paused before jamming it into the ground next to a tombstone of grey rock. The shovel tipped over next to the sunken grave after he let go.

Turning to the vast beach of different graves, he cocked his head to look at the tops of the stones. They were all different sizes; the only common feature was a dark grimy rag that grew on the tops. An uncanny thought suddenly flooded over him: children, like him, were once able to bounce a beachball around, and that maybe, their ghosts would be playing here without running into cold stones that marks the husks of lives. Not that he could play with them.

He wondered about the ghosts for a bit. He squinted, scanning the graveyard. Smiling now, he squinted his eyes closed and tried to imagine little glowing figures playing on the beach that this could have once been. He thought of sun drenched- golden sand and the air filled with scolding and beckoning of children’s mothers. He opened them again, like a game of peek a boo; everywhere grey. He knelt at a grave at his feet with downcast eyes. Lots of nines, they’re long gone... he thought.

He stopped to look at the loathsome decay and crumbling of a grave next to the water’s edge. Someone’s forever home, where they’d rest, and where someone might come to remember. How could something so sacred be floating away like a piece of driftwood? He thought.

His puckered brow gazed upwards at the vast, foggy, slicing surface of the water. Bobbing in the water, a hollow skull rolled around in a flat spot in the waves like a pale palm holding out a gift. Now, with his fixed gaze everything behind his turned back, now irrelevant to him.

Foam arranged in two parallel lines leading the skull, the horizon of the dusty blue water trailed on , deepening in color quickly. Regardless, finding a skull at sea was disquieting. Set on retrieving it, he tentatively took off his shoes, followed by his socks. Sand crept up his toes and caressed his heels before he stepped forward. Where he stood, the water was pulled back. He could see cartilage pocking through the sand. Glutinous seaweed and brown bits of sticks were revealed under the receded seafoam. He climbed in, knee deep, then waist deep. He clenched his limbs and made a deep exhale before he hopped off the bottom ; the sand disintegrated as he thrusted forward into the lukewarm sea.

As he reaches the skull, he swings his arms around it and pivots to make his return. The shore barely in sight owing to the odd tall grave on land. Locking view on them, he doggy paddles towards them. Could’ve sworn that I was faster getting here. He sighed. He stroked forward with more vigour. The salty water splashed on his face for the first time. He spat and opened his mouth. His breathing was now short and quick.

He wanted out but the bottom was no where near. His limbs were feeling light. He switched arms to continue treading water twice to keep hold of the skull. Now, exasperated, and weary, he apathetically throws the skull forward plunging his head below the water. He resurfaces, heaving, blinking, before scrambling to swim back. Now flailing, his energy is spent, and he looks at the shore one more time while gurgling, but the water had dimmed the light in his eyes, adding another playmate for the ghosts.