The drive up was uneventful, for the most part. Your typical Kentucky drivers, interspersed with the occasional larger-than-average roadkill, rolled into little more than a bloody hide and some legs. A coyote? A deer? One could only hazard a guess by the size of the smear.
When I die (although, of course, I hope it is a long ways off), I want my ashes returned to the ocean. Not the beach-- the beach is some soft, weak little thing that gently laps against the sand, while you sit twenty feet away, sipping your third margarita.
No.
I want to be given to the ocean. Those powerful, ivory-capped waves, riding atop a gunmetal gray berth that itself hides more than man can fear.
I say "returned," as it has already tried to claim me once. When I was 9, a sneaker wave crept the shore, and for all the world a mini tsunami tried to well up and take me home.
Although it elicited fear for years afterwards, I now see the strange, natural complement it had given me. I was a part of it, and will be again someday-- once my contributions to this land are done. We will rejoin, and, one day, the sea will have the tribute it tried to claim so many years ago.
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