“Why did it take me 26 years to get here? And more importantly, how did I ever find this place?” I ask the Sunbathers, not aiming my question at anyone in particular.
“It’s always been here,” one answers.
“It has? But . . no. It just couldn’t be. See, I’ve been looking for this place my whole life. All my will’s been bent on it . . well, I mean, I did get sidetracked a little. A lot. Most of the time. Nearly all of the time. But this was the place I really wanted to find. Really, in my heart of hearts. This is where I’ve been wanting to go. So, you see, it couldn’t always have been here,” I explain. “Because I was just over there.” I point to the shore across the dried-up ocean floor. “See there? See where all those people are stumbling around, plotting against each other and snarling? That was where I was, see.
“The problem with what you’re saying is that I would have been able to see this place from here. I mean, it’s just across that ocean—well, that dried up ocean. So it couldn’t have been here all this time. Are you sure it hasn’t moved?”
“I’m sure,” another Sunbather pipes in. “I’ve been here for years.”
“But I didn’t have to cross through any oceans to get here!” I protest. “It wasn’t even hard! I didn’t have to use any of the swimming techniques I’ve been teaching myself!”
“Right again.”
“But if you’ve been here for years . .” I start, putting two-and-two together, “then I would have seen you, you see, because I was RIGHT OVER THERE.”
“Well,” the Sunbather says mildly, “maybe you were just looking in the wrong places.”
“Yeah, but . . no,” I insist. “You’re not getting the point. If I was just over there, we would have SEEN each other, don’ you see?”
“Uh huh,” another Sunbather chimes in. “We did see you.”
“WHAT?” I demand. “Not possible!”
“Oh yeah,” another Sunbather says. “We’ve seen you all right. You had a real penchant for mortality-by-ocean-drowning.”
I’m suddenly convinced that they have been seeing me, all this time. But it’s almost beyond belief. “But- you- if- . .” Sentence fragments are flying all over the place, the confusion blowing them everywhere, and any pieces I happen to find don’t fit with any others. I can’t make a sentence to save my life.
Of course, I don’t have to save my life.
That’s the whole point of this place.
“We tried to help you,” another Sunbather volunteers, reading my mind. “We yelled out. A lot.”
“But- you- then- how- why-”
“You couldn’t hear us though,” another Sunbather adds. “What with all the waves and all.”
“You had a real obsession with waves,” another Sunbather agrees.
“But- then- you mean- wow.”
“That’s right,” a Sunbather says, knowing my mind. “You didn’t have to go through any of those oceans at all. All those times you were choking on salt water. All those times you sunk to the bottom.”
“None of that was necessary,” I say in shock, knowing it’s true.
“None of it,” one of the Sunbathers agrees.
“You mean . . all the time . . . I just had to . . . . cross . . . . . a dry ocean bed. There was no water to contend with at all?” But I don’t need an answer. I know it’s true. They know I know it’s true. I look down at the dry river bed. It’s the deepest, longest canyon I’ve ever seen. “If there’d been water in there,” I whisper. “I’d never have made it.”
“No one would have, no one except the Great Swimmer. The Great Swimmer changed all that years ago,” a Sunbather explains, even though he knows my learning and accepting of that truth was how I finally got here.
“The Great Swimmer drowned, didn’t He?” I ask. “Draining the water from this oceanbed.”
“He had to,” one of the Sunbathers says. “There was no other way. Everyone would have drowned crossing it.”
“So you mean . . all this time . . . I’ve been . . . . trying to ford oceans . . . . . when I didn’t need to?”
“Are you sad about that?” one of the Sunbathers asked.
I shook my head. “How can I be?” I asked. “When I’m over here now? When the Great Swimmer not only made a way to save me, but He rescued me from my decision to drown myself until I changed my mind?”
“Would you like to lay down in the sun now?” another Sunbather asked. “Now that you’re through with swimming and drowning and all that stuff?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “Oh yes.” I sit down on the hot, hot sand in the hot, hot sun. I have almost forgotten what it was like to be cold, even though it was just a minute ago that I was. A minute ago or was it really almost 2,000 years ago, with the death of Christ?
“You look like you could use a rest,” a Sunbather says.
I cough up a spurt of saltwater, and I feel really good doing that. “I don’t have to go into any more oceans,” I say in relief. I keep coughing up nasty, burny water. It feels good to get rid of it. It feels even better knowing I won’t have to swallow any more down. I start to lay down. I have never laid down before. I have never been able to close my eyes for more than a blink. I have always been vigilant. I have always been trying to make it across oceans. I have always been drowning.
“Now that I’m not drowning anymore,” I say, leaning back, “what is there for me to do?”
“Soak up the Sun,” a Sunbather says. “Really soak it up.”
“Ah, yes,” I say. “That sounds nice. Anything else?”
“I can see you’re just beginning,” a Sunbather says, chuckling. “This is the anything else.”
“Just laying here, soaking up the Sun?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s ALL I do?”
“Everything you do is going to be through that, because of that.”
“You mean like working as a lifeguard, don’t you? Going back to all those wrong oceans.”
“That’s right,” one of the Sunbathers says. “But you’ll find that when you go . . you haven’t really left.”
“You mean I’ll be there and here?”
“There and here.”
“Whoa. Cool.” I know that really isn’t the right thing to say, or the most intelligent, but it’s the only thing I can think of.
“So even when I’m there, in the cold, in the water . . I’ll really be here? In the sand, in pleasure, in the Sun?”
“Always. The Sun only turned away from one Sunbather.”
“The Great Swimmer,” I say. “When He drowned.”
“That’s right.”
“So . . where do I go? Which ocean? There must be thousands.” I know, because I used to be drowning. I used to be drowning for a long time.
“Millions,” one of the Sunbathers correct.
“Which one, then?” I ask. I want to write it down on my To-Do list. My great big To-Do list that used to be filled with names of oceans I commanded myself to drown in. But when I reach for my list, I notice it’s gone.
“IT’S GONE!” I cry.
“What?” one of the sunbathers asks. “Oh, your To-Do list?” She chuckles.
“This isn’t funny!” I cry frantically. “Everything I was supposed to do was on it!” I start to get that sick feeling in my stomach, that sick feeling I get when I can’t even check off one of the bazillions of things I’m supposed to be doing on my ever-growing list. But then, the panic stops. I take a deep breath. I laugh.
“Oh, yeah!” I cry. “I remember now! After the Great Swimmer pulled me up onto this shore, we had a fight over that list, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” one of the sunbathers says, laughing. “And you lost.”
“Oh,” I sigh in bliss. “I am so happy He got that out of my fist.” I look down at my hand. “You know,” I just realize, “the broken bones don’t hurt anymore.”
“No,” one of the Sunbathers agrees. “He healed your hand after He broke it. That’s His way.”
Of course it is. I know that by now. “HE DID EVERYTHING ON MY LIST!” I cry, pure, sweet peace. “HE DID EVERYTHING ON MY LIST!” My heart rolls around in the rapture of living without a list.
“NO MORE LIST!” I scream hysterically, flopping down into the sand. “NO MORE LIST!” I roll around in the sand, laughing and laughing. I am a lunatic, a lunatic for the Great Swimmer, and I want to stay that way forever and ever.
“NO MORE LIST! NO MORE LIST! NO MORE LIST!!! Hallelujah, it’s all crossed out! NO MORE LIST!”
I take a little nap. It’s my first time sleeping. (It’s hard to sleep when you’re drowning.) When I wake up, I’m still on the shore.
I have more questions.
“So . . when I’m in the ocean . . . What’s my job? Pulling people up off the ocean floor when they’re drowning? Holding their head above water? Giving them CPR?”
“No, no,” a Sunbather says patiently. “No no. Is that what we did? Did we pull you out of the water? Did we save you from drowning all those zillions of times? Did we drag you to shore?”
“No,” I whisper, thinking back. “The Great Swimmer did. So . . what is my job, exactly?”
“Don’t you remember what we did for you?”
“OH!” I say, getting it now. “I have to narrate what the Great Swimmer’s doing. I have to follow His directions and be a part of the rescue.”
“That’s old ocean talk,” one of the sunbathers warns. “That won’t get you anywhere but back in the ocean, trying to drown.”
“But I can’t drown now,” I say, ecstatic. “Look, see?” I hold up my arms. “I’ve got these wonderful floaties on my arms that the Great Swimmer gave me. And you know what’s even better? I can’t get them off.” I realize now how stupid that sounds. “I mean . . I tried,” I admit.
“We know,” one of the sunbathers says dryly. “We watched you.”
“I guess you guys think I’m really stupid, huh?”
They all grin. “We didn’t just walk out here one day, you know,” one of them says. “We had our share of oceans.”
“Wait, though . .” I say, thinking back. “Why did you say that was ‘old ocean talk’, what I said earlier? When I said I have to talk about the Great Swimmer? When I said that I have to do what He says so that I’m an aid and not a nuisance as He pulls people up out of the oceans?”
They all just lay there smiling, waiting for me to get it.
“OH!” I say, getting it now. “I don’t have to. He can do it by Himself, can’t He?” I grin, and I feel a wild joy. “I want to tell drowners about the Great Swimmer. I want to be a part of the rescue mission.”
“There you go,” a Sunbather says.
“Now you’ve got it,” another Sunbather says.
“I’m so happy!” I say.
“It’s about time,” one of them says, grinning.
“I know just what ocean I’m going to start in!” I say. “I’m going to start in the Listic Oceans. Those were my drowning spots, you know.”
“We know.”
“I’m going to show them my floaties, and I’m going to talk about how happy I am! And I’m going to show them my hands, to prove there’s no list.”
“Now you’re talking,” a Sunbather encourages.
I look down at myself. I have little floaties on my arms. My body is awfully wrinkled from spending so much time in the ocean. I can still see the oceans I used to drown in. They look awfully dark and scary. I might mess up if I go back there. I might thrash around in the water and snort up saltwater. I won’t drown, of course, thanks to my floaties. But I might make a real fool of myself. In fact, I probably will.
“I am a real mess, though,” I say. “Do you think anybody will believe me?”
They look at me until a slow smile spreads over my face. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You don’t need to be rescued if you can rescue yourself, do you?”
I think about this some more. Then I frown. “But don’t you think they might be mad? I mean, that the Great Swimmer picked me? I mean, me of all people.” I think about everyone I’ve ever known. “I mean, why me? There were a trillion bazillion less helpless, less pathetic people out there. There were a trillion bazillion people who are more sufficient, less needy, more hopeful, less doubtful, more courageous, less cowardly, more satisfied, less weary, more happy, less sad, more funny, less tragic, more brilliant, less dumb, more knowledgeable, less empty-headed, more healthy, less sick, more strappy, less puny, more brassy, less whimpering, more appropriate, less clueless, more powerful, less feeble, more conquering, less defeated, more successful, less pathetic, more nice, less mean, more friendly, less calculating, more straightforward, less devious, more honest, less lying, more beautiful, less ugly, more normal, less psychotic, more stable, less neurotic, more pleasure-giving, less pain-seeking, more planning, less plotting, more organized, less chaotic, more gentle, less cruel, more safe, less dangerous, more humanitarian, less misanthropist, more cool, less dork, more trying, less giving up, more lawful, less wicked, more calm, less anxious, more smooth, less jerky, more benevolent, less malicious, more forgiving, less punishing, more gracious, less judgmental, more well-intentioned, less ill-intentioned, more hard-working, less manipulative, more dependable, less unreliable, more faithful, less wishy-washy, more compassionate, less hurtful, more patient, less hot-tempered, more composed, less moody, more blessed, less cursed, more dignified, less classless, more improvised, less canned, more collected, less impulsive . . .”
“Yes,” one of the sunbathers says. “And they’re still trying to swim here.”
“You mean I can go out and help them?”
“That’s the wonder of the Great Swimmer, now isn’t it?”
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I wrote this metaphor April 19, 2009, two days after my conversion. The original title was “Freedom is Free (For Us)”.