She had forgotten. She hadn't realized that the memory was there until the scent crept into her nostrils again. The salt, the rotting, the dampness. The foam and mist and violent summer storms. The waves and sand and crustaceans. The tumultuous cycle of life, death and rebirth in undulating rhythm. The rocking and bobbing of the boat, the swirling of the eddy.
All of these lived inside of her, just as surely as her heart pumped blood. And they followed the same rhythm. The same violence and peace, the same cycle of life and death and rebirth, the same rocking and bobbing. Her blood moved in the same fluid waves, a smaller ocean inside of her.
She breathed in, fully, and swallowed. Willing her body to take in the nourishment, to consume the nutrients, to absorb. She felt the mist on her face and begged her skin to open to it, to let it in. She leaned back and felt the moisture turn warn with the baking sun above. And she prayed her mantra: "Thank you, thank you, thank you."