I feel the freest when I'm standing in the ocean. Specifically, when I stand at the shoreline, just as the waves begin to get rough, preferably at the time of year when the Atlantic Is noisy and mischievous, in the late spring or sometimes in July. When I can feel the current of the water pulling a million grains of sand over my feet, which have gone nearly numb from the cold. And all of a sudden, as the sand and water and seaweed and rough shells suck past my ankles, a wave rises and hits me full in the face, knocks me down, tumbles me over and over so that sand scratches my face. For a brief moment, I breathe salt and my knees buckle under me. When I'm smart enough to keep my eyes closed, I could swear that I'm flying.
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