Releasing myself from the confines of gridlocked rows and the google cells of spreadsheets, I make my way to the soft give of sand where ocean touches land.

Cool, wet granules mold beneath my step.  I slip into movement that is one with the air.  Slow and graceful.  Honey-like.  No where to go.  Just rolling in thick, sweet time.

Before me on the tide line, two brothers with shaven heads, dark skin.  They look like little monks in board shorts, tossing their fishing lines to the water.  I smile and pass them by, feeling the layers of scheduling and scribbled lists drift further in my wake.

Body moves.  Breath enters.  Water laps.  Breath exits.  Trade winds rustle kamani leaves on the tree.

As I walk between the scattered chunks of corral, a mantra surfaces. 

Let the way be shown.

Driftwood, broken shells, a million jagged pieces of reef – orange and white and brown. I step among artifacts as soupy sand seeps between red toenails.  Last week’s passing fancy – a bold springtime painting – does not suit my lifestyle.  My barefoot excursions have chipped the crimson polish and stained red-clay dirt on my pedicured heels.

I approach the section of the beach with all the visitors.  I’ll be an alien on vacation watching curious humans commune with nature.  A shirtless man moves thumbs across an electronic device at the shoreline.  Brightly colored towels hold women reading novels in the sun.  Pale children run, knee-deep in water, toward parents holding cameras on the sand.

Passing through the bottleneck of tourists, I make my way over the lava rocks onto the single lane road that buffers houses from the sea.  Million dollar vacation rentals rub against island surf shacks.

A group of spring-breakers have set up seaside camp not far from their rental Jeep.  Coolers with cocktails and a boom box casting Zepplin.  Despite all of the accoutrements of vacation, these bathing suit bodies seem lost.  On the set without a script, it’s as though actors showed up on stage with no director.  A few extras linger by the car and pass a pipe, coughing in exaggerated proclamation to their holiday in paradise.  They watch me roll by and jokingly make apologies for their hacking friend.

I am just the observer.  Smiling and being honey on the shoreline.  Passing more seaside cottages with blow up rafts tossed on the lawn.  Rental cars sit with doors swung open in the drive.

“How do you spell luau?”

An East coast accent drifts down from an open window.  I’m walking near the coco palms, but I can see his cursor in the Google box searching for his Hawaiian feast.

Asphalt beneath my chipped, red toenails begins to disappear.  Sand tosses at the border, eventually overtaking man’s paving.  As I walk further toward the river mouth, black tar segues to earth and scattered potholes.

A fishing camp of tarps and trucks houses locals talking story.  Snippets of pidgin lilt above sunlit waters, catching on the breeze.

“If you go looking for one sign on if you should go back to Georgia, then that’s it, brah!”

I am still moving.  Slow and steady.  Watching and listening.  Wind moves my hair.  The soft cotton of my sarong wraps my shoulders.  Toes direct me to the place where the river meets the sea.

I stand in the swirl of salt and fresh.  Two currents colliding together to wrap my ankles in refreshing cool.  In the distance beyond the corral reef, white waves crash and sizzle, sending sound my way in delayed time.

Thoughts drift to unconditional love. 

Let the way be shown.

I feel the human pull to find that place on planet earth.  We all want our destined paradise.  We search for the path to lead us there.

Here I steep in the simplicity of shifting sand, two waterways, clean air and my beating heart.  I am fed by elements, mingling in the stories of my species.

Let the way be shown.

My eyes fall upon an abandoned sand castle, its once-defined form now smoothed and crumbling.  Nearby, stacked stones and etchings in the sand.  This time it’s not the typical names.  No “Jordan loves Kelly.” No “aloha from Kauai”.

Just one simple word is drawn.  My directive carved in capital letters:

FLOAT