I have an irrational love of tides.

For the first time in over a decade I went swimming in the ocean. I was on a beach in Hawaii, paradise on earth; warm sand, a cool breeze, and cyan waters kissing the shore, I decided to take a dip. You see, where I’m from the water is volatile and unforgiving, none would dare to put themselves at its mercy, but in that moment in that tropical paradise I discovered water’s gentler side. The water there was clear: I could see down to the rocks and coral beneath me. Schools of fish, yellow and black, swayed on the currents and a thin eel slithered along the rock bed into crevices unseen. A pair of iridescent fish passed to my right, their scales reflected the fractured sunlight that managed to pass through waters domain. Further ahead a rod-like fish swam. It was white, almost translucent with dark eyes at one end that made it look less like a fish and more like a dirty pipe cleaner. I didn’t want to leave that underwater world.

None seemed to care or notice the dark shadow I casted over them. It made you feel like a god. If I wanted I could hunt these fish for dinner. If I wanted I could pollute their environment and make them suffer. If I wanted to I could do absolutely nothing. I could be benevolent, I could be malevolent, I could be apathetic, such is the hubris of humans. I stayed in my vantage point for some time longer before returning to shore, but as I neared the shore the tide began to pull me back. I kicked my feet and extended my arms, yet the water was curiously strong. Off shore the water had been so calm and navigable, it wasn’t until I tried to leave that it began to show its strength. The water was to me what I was to the fish. Like the Sirens of Greek myth, the ocean lured me into a sense of peace to hide its true power. I wasn't a god after all, just another fish aimlessly drifting on the current.