With each swell, I took my mark; feet planted, toes in the sand, water up past my waist, ready for action.
For hours, I'd run from the coast to the ocean--giggling, breathless...over...and over...and over...again. Even the tallest whitecaps didn't faze me. I'd dive in, hold my breath, and brace for impact; often collecting mouthfuls of sand as I somersaulted towards shore.
The days were exhausting...completely draining. In the end, I'd just lie there, praying to be carried. Today, after taking my second stab at self-prescribed swimming/floating therapy, I feel the same: totally depleted, unable to move, in search of rescue.
Altered Today: Daily Routine, Level of Exhaustion