The sounds of the creek are spellbinding. There is the howling of the wind, a wondrous, whooshing symphony in my surrendering mind. There is the sighing sound of the waves, the gentle lapping conjuring romantic notions that have inspired a million poets throughout history.

But there is also the sound of aching.

There is so much life that inhabits the creek, an endless chain of revival and renewal, but there is also an overwhelming amount of death that plagues the water. I feel the souls of all that have perished in the depths of the water. They haunt me as they swim in the swirling swells, and I find myself murmuring a prayer on their behalf.

The pull and push of the ever-changing tide are full of pleading. The water is never satisfied, always churning, never ceasing. It is on a perpetual quest for satisfaction and peace, and I feel its restlessness and frustration as it rocks the boat from side to side. The breeze kisses my cheek and whispers a gentle reminder to not forget this moment when I return home to my daily routine. Life on land may be monotonous at times, but Salt Creek certainly is not. It is not stagnant. And just as so many women and men have succumbed to its captivating calls, I too know that I am hopelessly enchanted. The creek possesses the power to be our savior, our enthrallment, our retreat and our destruction.

It shows me that I am alive.