Ever since she had first seen the sea she had dreamed the sea. The sea washing in. The sea moving into her space. The long time salt waters lapping against her breast, over the nightdress and onto her face. The sea dragging her down into the backwash and after froth. Invading her home, her husband, her children, her coffin, her room within a room - that unchanging part of herself that was sacred.
It had begun with the shift of coastal winds. A change from the south, orographic in nature, inevitable in its course. Early one lifetime she had seen the sea roll in from her dreamtime and over her life. It was then the first scent of sea came rolling in. She had seen the sea in the distance before this day. The smooth sky darkness of aqua, the feared and dreaded mystery beneath. She had ventured onto her verandah early one lifetime. Watching her husband as he left her for his career. Waiting for her children as they came off the school bus. Holding her warm and ancient womb beneath her apron. Waiting forever for her life. Waving her loved ones goodbye.
Then in came the sea, folding and bellowing through the erosion worn coral. Tumbling and sliding towards her home, past her slippers and into her mind. She has accepted this change. The ice of last night's coffee and the nature of age settles in her bedclothes. Her husband slipped from her, her children are lost from her. She will face this change of climate alone. She turns from the verandah and into mind, closing the windows and doors behind her.
Once inside there is brief relief. But she is fearful of the climate. The tide washing in, rolling and lolling around her knees. Collapsing her weir that had cracked with time. Shifting her back into the sea of life. Awakening her to some primordial state. Expanding her mind. But she is only half dressed at this stage. She feels the cold dry walls and the heavy shag pile carpet beneath her feet. She takes two steps forward and one step back. She vacuums the hallway and in her own narrow way she tries to forget.
Late afternoon tea and the vacuum is left of its own free will. She has done little this day, except come into herself, dusting the shelves - changing her mind into the shape of the room itself. She has covered the mirrors. She has taken precautions against the storm. Now she has swept and changed the bedcovers. Now she is safer within herself closing out the darkness of the weather behind her forever. But for how long?
Suddenly she is disturbed by a noise at the back window. She is half dressed and fearful. Yet the backyard verandah still holds solid beneath her feet, and from where she is she can see the sea. There has been a violent storm within and without her. Two dying fish flap up onto her window ledge and die on the verandah. Startled by their dead eyes, she rushes back into the house, slamming the door and wrapping her nightgown around her.
Ever since the sea first washed over her front verandah, her doormat and under her door - it has been inevitably seeped and grown mould, ruined and flooded her mind and her hall. And that wasn't all, the carpet was rotting, the wall paper stained. If only she had been brave and less afraid in this instance. If she had only taken notice of the sea in the distance. But now it had swallowed her all of a sudden and there seemed no escape. She climbs onto a foot stool avoiding the floor. Crabs are invading. Sea water pinching. She has never been so close to the water before.
She climbs from the foot stool and onto the table. Before this she thought that she had once known her mind. The dreams of flying, of burning, of drowning, of dying. She had dreamt of her house, the lukewarm aquarium - as she floated through the dining room and into the loungeroom, with gummy eyes and gaping mouth. She had seen the milkman drowning at four. She had pulled her dog from the sink by the hair. Had rescued the bloated eyed body in fear of ending the same way herself. Slowly and finally she rode the tides - she could breath underwater - her body washed restlessly onto the roof.
She has fallen into the ocean on many occasions, almost drowning. She is lashed white with hail. She throws away her bedsocks and straps herself to the chimney in order to ride the gale. Breakers smash into her garage, her kitchen, her children's room, her coffin. She is fearful of drowning. She becomes conscious of her position, her clinging wet night dress, her tortured wet eyes, her age old womb and knobby knees. Her coffin is splintered into a thousand fragments, scattered and churning into a restless sea.
She tightened her grip and the red brick cut in. Her legs dragging beneath her away in the wind. She could barely see herself. I'M NOT LETTING GO, she struggled into the storm and gale, and in doing so became stronger. I'M NOT LETTING GO. I'M NOT LETTING GO.
Late afternoon of the aftermath. Two girls are searching the same garden path and her husband is floating mysteriously towards her from the driveway. She reaches out to her family, her coffin, her home, to tell them how much she, what they and how she, had no time, before the flood thunder of mind came crashing through. Her potplants flooded, her driveway ruined. Her life and all that she had ever known swept away by the tides forever. Sea covering her darkness with darkness. No longer time to go back to her old life. Knowing her family no longer. Knowing the sea in a dream.
