Ocean of Fury

I walked across the white, smooth sand into the clear water. Although initially cold, my feet quickly acclimated to the Caribbean waters. I waded slowly, trying my best to avoid the rocks and pieces of sharp shells littered on the sea's bottom. When the water reached my waist I decided to take the plunge and dive in. The temperature of the water took my breath away, but I adjusted surprisingly quickly.

I swam out to the rock my parents were sitting on. Fortunately the rock was close to the beach, as my swimming form was rather pathetic due to lack of practice. I swam like a Labrador Retriever - an old, injured one. With the help of a wave, they pulled me onto the rock. The ocean effortlessly washed me off.

Later I swam past the rock - to the point where my feet could no longer touch the sandy floor. I was exhilarated, challenging the waves and the fury of the ocean. I mocked the ocean's attempt to knock me over. The ocean responded with fury. The sea pulled me in and spit me out, as if it were winning and then losing a game of tug-of-war with the land. I sucked and breathed in salt water. It was wretched. I gasped and coughed. The ocean mocked my attempt to gain my composure. I finally did and I swam back to where I could touch the bottom. I would go out no further.