She ran alongside the sea, feet crunching the gravel, sun overhead. There was no shelter. No trees, no shade, no clouds in the blue sky. The lava fields stretched out on either side, rolling in ribbons of black sleeping fire. She kept her eyes ahead and downward, measuring her steps, but all the time comforted by the assurance of the blue ocean in her periphery. The lava was death, the road was dry, but the ocean always rolled. The sound of the waves crashing against the sea cliffs was reassuring and centering. No matter what, the waves always rolled, one after another, forever and endless, breaking against the black walls of lava. She ran, step after step, mile after mile clicked by. The wind blew in a swirling vortex, with no perceivable source or direction, the trade winds all mixed up and confused by the tall cliffs and barren landscape. It filled her ears and dried the sweat on her face, leaving gritty traces of salt behind. She licked her lips, dry, sticky, salty. Her feet slowed and stopped. She turned slowly, rotating in a slow pirouette, her gaze taking in the black and grey of the earth below and the blue of the sky above. The ocean was gone. She had reached a dip in the road and the lava fields rose on either side, hiding the view of the sea. She could not hear the waves, only the rushing wind. Panic began to rise in her throat and fear closed her chest. The lava looked like death all around without the balance of the rolling waves. She struggled to breathe as her heartrate increased. She told herself, "The ocean is still there. It is always there." The impish demon on her shoulder whispered in her ear, "But what if it's not? What if there is only the black darkness of the lava, the unforgiving sun, the drying deafening wind, and the grey gravel? What will you do? What if you cannot make your feet run the miles back?" This was the edge of nowhere, where cell phones do not have service, where cars do not drive, where few people venture. She was miles from her starting point. She leaned over, hands on her knees, trying to slow her breathing and push down the panic. It was hot. The wind did not diminish the burning of the sun. This was an unforgiving place. She slowly stood. Deep breath in, one step forward. "Moving forward is progress, no matter how slow. It means I'm not staying where I am," she told herself. "Good girl, keep going." Her feet crunched in the gravel again, until the ocean reappeared to her left. She veered off the gravel road and stepped onto the lava. The lava was tricky. If she lost her footing or focus and tripped, it would rip skin open like a giant cheese grater. She step, step, stepped, carefully and slowly dancing across the lava field, called by the ocean. Sometimes her steps were firm, as though the ground was made of asphalt, laid down by Pele's crew. Sometimes her feet crunched through the top layer and the black dried fire gave way, speeding up her feet, making her dance faster. Finally she stood at the cliff edge, lava behind, ocean expanse stretching out in front, eternally blue and never ending. It met the horizon in a blending ombre, with no distinction between the blue of the water and the blue of the sky. The crests of the waves bent and dipped. The waves rolled and crashed against the cliff, as far as she could see. She sat down carefully on the edge of the cliff, dangling feet over the edge. The lava bit into her thighs, tiny bits of glass grinding into her skin and mixing with her sweat. Here, the ocean was close enough that the wind could not drown it out. The waves crashed, one after another, predictable and dependable. No matter what, the waves would always roll. She looked down at the crystal blue water, clear enough to see the rocks underneath when the swells withdrew to build another wave. The water was 40 feet below. As she sat, legs hanging over the side of the cliff, her mind began to turn over and ask questions. How deep is the water? If a person jumped from the cliff, would there be a chance of survival? Certainly not, if they landed, oh- in that spot, where the water is shallow and turbulent and the rocks are just beneath the surface. But what if they jumped and landed over there, for instance, where the water is deep and more calm? Could a person swim to the edge, clamber back up the lava and be safe? How long would it take to drown? If, in theory, a person jumped and landed in that shallow spot, where the rocks are visible, would they die instantly or would it be slow? The body fights death so hard. The impulse to stay alive is strong and perseveres, even beyond the willingness of the mind and spirit. She sat and thought these things, until they filled her head and mind and she shook herself, waking. Carefully, she drew her feet back from the edge. Carefully, she stood. Her time with the ocean was done. She brushed the bits of lava and glass off her legs, small pieces still adhering, where they had dug beneath her skin and wormed their way into her shorts. She walked back across the lava, crunching her way to the gravel, back to the grey. Feet on the ground, road rolling before her like a grey ocean tide. She began to run again, slowly at first, then picking up speed on the downhills and pressing hard on the uphills. The ocean gleamed to her left, always there, always constant. The lava burned on either side. But her feet carried her forward, her breathing was sure. She was going home.
