ocean playground

Catherine challenged me in the Indie Ink Writing Challenge with the prompt “Use this cliche anywhere in your story: keep your fingers crossed.”

The puff of warm wind feels positively tropical against your air-conditioned skin, as I take your delicate hand and lead you out of the car.

I guide you around a shrinking puddle.

We walk towards the greenest of fields.

The long blades of grass sway in perfect harmony to music carried on the wind.

One way. Then the other.

Inviting. Then playfully blocking access.

You hop out of your flip-flops, bend and pick them up with your free hand.

You give me a smirk and a shrug.

I stroll. You dance.


I look back over our shoulders and see our trail.

I like that

That we’re leaving our mark.

I like that.

Wild flowers grow in sneaky patches here and there.

“What kind of flowers are those?”


We make it to the crest of the gradual hill.

You stop.

You’ve never seen an ocean look quite like this.



But in the most inviting way.

The breeze tries to pick up the bottom of your flowered sundress. You hold it down with your flip-flopped hand.

I look down towards the end of the field, then back at you.

You nod.

We make our way down, with you almost pulling me along.

When that doesn’t work, you let go of my hand and sprint ahead.

You tilt your head back and really feel the noon day sun on your face.

You stop at the edge of the field, just above the rocky slight incline.

You plop down on your butt.

You toss your flip-flops to the side.

I arrive next to you, looking out over the ocean too.

Deciding that my reconnection with the sea has gone on long enough, you pat the ground where you want me to sit.

I plop down too.

I take my phone out of my pocket, shut it off, and toss it to the side.

You reach out and let your tiny hand get lost in mine.

I place the back of mine on your smooth, soft leg.

Waves nudge the shore, because they have nowhere else to be.

I move my hand a little.

The wind catches your hair.

You let it.

I can almost see the freckles increasing in number on your nose.

Under your eyes.

On your shoulders, as your sundress strap falls.

A seagull stands defiantly on a jagged rock standing defiantly against the Atlantic.

A large sailboat tacks it’s way across the horizon.

I consider explaining how sailing works.


Instead I find myself caught up in thoughts of old sailors on older schooners. Creaking both. Excited to see new lands, but so happy to return home.

To the one they love.

The sun and noble vessel travel in opposite directions, until the ship slips from sight around the point of the island.

You look at me with eyes so sad that the boat has disappeared.

“There’s an old fishing superstition. If you close your eyes, and keep your fingers crossed, another ship will appear on the horizon.”

You cross your fingers.

You close your eyes.

And I kiss you.

For keeps.

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