His daughter

Two, wet footprints can't hide from the sun.

In youth, they were dashed lines on a map that he created.

I followed, blindly. Driven forward by wonder and worry.

Toes splayed in the sand with heels evident,

under the weight that he carried - resistance underfoot.

Reaching out through a wall of white,

searching for something that the fog distorted.

An edge, maybe. An ending. Maybe a connection.

The black night shrouded his emotions, rendering them invisible.

Whirring line off his reel acted as a beacon. A lighthouse on the jetti.

A light in the dark.

The slap of a striper on the ocean's surface, and the struggled that ensued -

a reminder.

In life, some seek the sacrifice of others to make themselves feel alive.

Crimson in the shallows.

New dawn rose on his weathered features.

Dried salt formed whitecaps on his skin.

My father's depression baptized in expansive, churning green.

Twenty years later, my barefeet find support on the jetti.

His footprints long faded, and yet I still follow -

with eyes wide open.

I watched his missteps to learn how to better manage my own.

Today, I cast them all into the ocean.

Baptism by fire.