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In and Out (Of Sync)

A short story about Fundy, and how he interacts with water and his family.

Words: 610

Trigger warnings: Brief mention of grief, death, and blood

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He stood where the land met the rolling waves, watching as the wind picked up and threw the water down again. Pushing. Pulling. Pushing. And pulling again.

A breath. In and out. Pushing and pulling.

The air was wet and cold. Sharp.

A breath. In and out. A push. A pull.

He brought his arms above his head, slowly. And then down again. Push, pull. In, out.

Again. A breath. In and out. Up and down. Push and pull.

One leg over the other, bare feet on freezing sand, sticking to his skin despite quick spins.

In and out and up and down and push and pull and forward and backward.

Feeling the sea and the land colliding, eyes closed, he moves his body in harmony. In tandem. In sync. In and out.

Hands on his chest and then off. On and off.

Eyes open and then closed. Open and closed.

Arm over arm. Over and then under.

Blood warm. Warm and cold.

Memories swimming. Swimming and drowning.

Hands being held and let go.

A mother and a father.

Dead. Alive.

He’s alive. In and out and open and under and closed and swimming and off and dead and alive and in and out.

A raindrop on his nose. And arm. And head. And open eyes.

Drawn to the sea like his mother before him. Drawn to his mother like his father. Scared like a father. Curious like a mother. Dead. And alive.

And yet so peaceful.

A mother’s voice.

In.

“I’m here, Fundy. I see you, my son.”

And out.

Grief, Fundy has found, has a push and a pull. It came in suffocating waves and fast currents. High and low tide. Receding shorelines and tsunamis.

Fundy never knew his mother, so he began to dance again. The rain hit him with increasing intensity.

And yet, there are bright shining memories of her at the edge of his vision. A sure voice.

Especially by the water. He could feel her in the push and the pull. The neverending cycle from sea to sky and back again.

He reached his arm out with closed eyes, lunging parallel to the sea.

Memories of pictures and stories told by his father flooded through Fundy, clenched his chest, furrowed his eyebrows.

He knew his father.

Such confusion and anger surrounded, clouded his father. Peace, his mother. Chaos, his father.

In.

Sweltering heat.

In.

Fire.

In.

The taste of warm blood.

In.

A lighting strike.

In.

Explosions.

In.

A comforting hug.

Out.

In.

Fundy closed his eyes.

Out.

He leaned backwards, out of the lunge, into a stretch.

The rain moved swiftly onwards towards the mainland. Fundy watched it go. As the thunder continued to clap and lightning lit up the sky, Fundy could hear the booming message.

In.

His father’s voice

“Fundy, my son. How proud of you I am.”

Out.

In.

And

Fundy brang his feet to meet each other, one arm outstretched towards the storm and the other reaching towards the calming sea.

In and out but both moving.

Pushing and pulling and both changing.

Up and down but both infinite.

Forward and backward but both steps.

On and off and open and closed and over and under and warm and cold and swimming and drowning and holding and letting go and dead and alive and it’s all the same.

The storm and the sea. Both are made of water.

Both are the same.

Everything. From the sun in the sky to the sand on the beach. The plants growing and the animals that eat them.

In one singular moment, Fundy felt that peace. The certainty. The balance. The understanding.

Out.