Manic by Terri Cheney

knew that I couldn’t face a hotel bed, not now, not with his rejection still quivering between us.
    After the check came, I told Rick that I was going to take a quick walk along the park between our hotel and the sea. “It’s after eleven,” he said. “I’ll be just a few steps away,” I reassured him. “Besides, the park is well patrolled.” All of La Jolla is well patrolled. He reluctantly agreed, as long as I was back before midnight.
    I knew exactly where I wanted to go. Across the park was a series of steps that led directly down to a cove, protected on all three sides by sheer rock. I wanted to feel the cool, wet sand against my feet, so I kicked off my heels, and made my way across the stretch of grass that separates La Jolla proper from the sea.
    “Do Not Enter. Danger. Riptide” read the wooden sign at the top of the steps. No one was around. I ducked under the chain, past the sign and down the mist-slick steps to the beach. Maintaining my balance was a constant struggle. I was finally forced to stop at one point and remove my panty hose. I left them on a nearby outcropping of rock, then I continued all the way down to the beach.
    It was just as I had remembered it: vicious, lonely, the kind of place where pirates would have hidden their treasure or ravished their maidens. There was only a tiny strip of sand to stand on, and even from there, it was impossible not to get wet. It looked like the tide was rising; but what did I care, I was here. I stepped into the freezing water. Within minutes, my feet were completely numb. I didn’t notice the cold anymore. I didn’t even notice the wet. My feet had completely ceased to exist.
    What if? a voice in my head kept asking, tugging at me like the tide. What if all of you were blessedly numb? What if your mind didn’t always think, think, think?
    I looked up at the sky. It was a clear, starry night, with an exquisite Van Gogh kind of brilliance. Well, I was sick of the exquisite brilliance of madness. I wanted simple and sane. Barring that, I wanted nothing. I wanted numb. Lifting my petticoats as high as I could, I stepped in further and let the water wash over my knees and thighs. The pain was searing. I forced myself to stand rock still until the pain gave way to nothing at all.
    What if? I slipped my dress up over my head and threw it onto the rocks. I slipped off my bra and panties, too, and flung them up there as well. Naked, I stepped into the surf.
    Crash! A wave assaulted me from the left. I staggered, slipped, then found my footing. Crash! Another wave hit me from the right, knocking me off balance and sending me into the water. It wouldn’t be long until I was thoroughly numb. I just had to stay upright long enough to let the cold work its way through me.
    It never even occurred to me just to lie back and let the water have its way with me. That would have been suicide, and I didn’t necessarily want to be dead, just dormant for a while. I had to escape. Manic feelings are sometimes so brutally strong it seems like there is no way to endure them. To me, there was nothing crazy about immersing myself in a freezing riptide at a quarter till midnight. Crazy would have been continuing to feel the way I did.
    So we danced together, the tide and I. I began to relax into the ocean’s rhythm: the boom-and-swish, boom-and-swish percussion of the waves. My eyelids grew heavy, and a drowsy warmth began to move through my body. My head started nodding, my eyes kept closing, and I found myself slipping deeper into the tide’s embrace. We danced together as one now, the only dance my body knew, the only dance I’d ever known…the riptide tango: three steps forward, three steps forward, two steps back.
    The water was up to my chin, and I was actually starting to get scared. I wanted to go back to the strip of beach, but the little beach was no longer there. There was nothing but water now, all around me—and in the distance, on an outcropping of rock, a