Old Man in the Sea

The undertow pulls at him, stronger, more menacing.

He’s old
and hunched over, 
worn down by time,
toil and gravity.

His skin’s as thin
and crinkly 
as crepe paper,
almost translucent,
same as his bald head.

He locks arms
with a sibling, 
one on each side,
escorting the old man
into the surf,
steadying him
as he shuffles into the sea
so he can feel it
wash over his feet
and incrementally creep
up over his ankles 
then over his knees.

He sinks his toes
into the sand
and feels the undertow
pulling at him,
as its done for decades,
but now stronger,
more menacing,
with more serious intent.

He loves the beach,
the initial rush 
of the cold water,
its ebb and flow,
the swirling foam,
the sound of the waves 
pounding on the sand.

He’s been standing
in that sand
every summer 
since he was a child,
riding the waves,
chasing the crabs,
collecting the shells,
he and his siblings 
sharing the time 
and space,
and now the memories. 

They plow further 
into the water,
arm in arm,
until a big wave
crashes over them
and they lose 
their grip.

The old man
gets pulled underwater,
his siblings knocked off guard
and floundering about,
the old man
rolling in the sand,
his bald head bobbing
in and out of the surf,
his skinny legs and feet
poking out of the water
like driftwood.

The wave recedes
back into the sea, 
leaving the old man 
flat on his back,
wiping foam from his face
and spitting seawater 
through his shriveled lips.

He blinks rapidly,
his eyelids popping open,
revealing sparkling blue eyes
full of life,
along with an ear-to-ear grin,
then he screams:

‘Let’s do it again!’