text: The gentle waves lap against my chin as I tread water, defying the suctioning motion of the ocean. I try not to look down and shiver. I am wearing my pajamas, which are not much in the way of protection from the cold. I don’t know how I got here. A buoy floats in the near distance, rocking back and forth. I hear yelling from somewhere I turn to look for the voice, searching for something. The boat that should be there, waiting for me, but instead, I am met with the terrifying realization that I am alone. This is the part that always gets me. I could never swim to shore in enough time to save myself from any possible threat. Exhaustion would get me before I was even halfway there. Any sea creature looking to make a snack out of me is faster than I could imagine. One wave that’s a little too big, and I’m under for long enough to fill my lungs. So, I tread water, waiting for what I’ve always known was going to get me sooner or later. Not exhaustion, not any sea creature, and no large wave to drown me. No, instead, the ice-cold water deep beneath me reaches up and tangles in my legs. Something pulls me down, and I fight to keep my head above water. But I am fighting in vain. Nothing can outswim or overpower this force. My head is beneath the water. I see the sun shining through the disfigured surface sheen of water. I cannot reach the sky. I cannot escape the pull of the darkness engulfing me. I open my mouth to scream, but I am filled with water black as night. I claw at the water, but my hands cannot save me. This is the dream I have every night, and I never wake up before I drown. I wake with tears stinging my cheeks and my head in my mother's lap. I sit up to look at her and she leans into me, pressing her forehead against mine. It is all I need to reassure me. I spot my all-terrain wheelchair in the corner, ready to be pushed down the ramp and to the safe haven of the clear air outside. My mother helps me into my chair and pushes me down the ramp. When the salty ocean breeze hits my nose I feel free for a moment. It's as if I am bounding across the beach, my feet hitting the sand, and splashing in the water. I feel like my face might break in half I'm smiling so wide. But then I am back in my chair, with only my mother to get me around, and I can't run anywhere. I can't even touch the water without having a nervous breakdown. It's hard to believe that just two years ago, I was a surfer riding the waves, mist in my face, salt in my eyes. I would stay out for hours and I wouldn’t come in until my mom practically dragged me, kicking and screaming. But now, my mom has to drag me everywhere. I am completely reliant on her, to my chagrin. It’s the sad truth. I can’t surf anymore. I can barely even walk. I remember, after the incident, everyone assumed I was attacked by a shark. Because, well, surfers only ever lose limbs if they are attacked by a shark. In reality, a shark never even came near me. What actually happened was much less likely than a shark attack. It was in the middle of summer, the sun was beating down with an intensity we hadn’t experienced in a very long time. I had been out surfing all day, and I told my mom I’d come in after catching one more big wave. I saw a monster wave rolling in, and I paddled out towards it. The wave approached rapidly, and as I stood up, I lost my balance. Before I could reposition myself, the wave was upon me, and my surfboard and I rolled with it. I wore an anklet to make sure I didn’t lose my board or myself, and there was a rope attaching me to the surfboard. In the rolling wave, the rope wrapped around my leg--tight. I remember feeling pain so excruciating I passed out. When I woke up, I was on the beach. I didn’t feel any pain, in fact, where the pain once was, I couldn’t feel anything at all. Looking down, I realized why. My leg was a dark shade of purple and blue, almost black. The color stemmed from my upper thigh, where my safety rope was entwined tightly around me. I passed out again. My mother and I learned later that week that my leg would have to be amputated. We couldn’t afford a prosthetic. We could barely afford the medical bills that came with it. The day I lost my leg was the day I lost everything. I would never be able to surf again. I lost the best part of my life. Doctors like to say that my fear of the ocean is irrational and stems from PTSD. I can’t say, though, that I believe them. The pure bizarreness of my injury was so incredibly unexplainable. No doctor can explain away my mental trauma if they can barely explain my physical trauma. I don’t think what happened to me was an accident. My fear cannot be irrational, as what I fear is something that I have encountered. It’s something everyone that has swum in deep water has experienced. That feeling you get when your feet brush with what seems like colder water, too deep below the surface to be warmed by sunlight. When you feel like there could be something beneath you that you don’t know about. When it feels like the cold is reaching up from the depths to ensnare you. *That is real*, and they call it thalassophobia.