"Ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in, in your head, in your mouth, in your soul."

The young bartender either is impressed by me, or thinks it's cute that I'm trying to act macho. I honestly don't care what his smirk means, I just want this bourbon to make my tooth ache go away. I keep pointlessly glancing at the shiny pink face of my watch, knowing that not even a minute passes between each glance. I'm not even looking at the watch hands, just how the pink is somehow also blue. It's the same way I keep glancing back at the gate. I don't even know how I would tell if people started to board the plane.

I'm impressed with myself at how quickly I finish the first one, so I order another straight up from the smirking surfer kid. I just want to be back on the surface of the ocean, floating in the dark. I tried it by myself, and it was too scary for some reason. Knowing Jude was near by made it easier. He helped contain the infinitude. Even then I kept popping my head over the metallic surface to make sure he was still there. I felt less like a coward when I caught him doing the same.

I didn't even recognize him after how many years? I was so happy to see Fredrick, I hardly had time to feel awkward about the stranger sitting near me.

"Hey Inger, do you know who that is?" I had just begun to feel his presence, so I turn my head fourty-five degrees to get a look. His face is in clear view, and as I study the lines, I scan my memory: immediate past, important figures. Who could this be? Not even a guess or a vague idea comes to me, even as I think further into the past.

"Hhm mm."

"It's Jude!"

Jude, who? I wonder. I don't remember anyone named Jude. I knew I'd be seeing several relatives that I wouldn't recognize, but not even his name rings a bell. He sort of blushes under my scrutinizing eyes. I still can't get it. "Your cousin!" There is a delay, and then "Max, Jude, and Job."

I had remembered Max. Max was my age. Max went to Iraq. Everyone talked about Max, how he'd grown up. It didn't occur to me, I suppose, that his little brothers would grow along with him. Back then, three and five years was a lifetime. So now that I am faced with a stranger that is about my age, I don't even think of Max's brothers. Job was still a baby the last time I saw them. He looked even stranger than Jude when I saw him. It wasn't until the second trip that I started to make out their baby faces in their grown-up ones.

That was the last trip, though. That was the trip full of strangers that it turned out I loved. It amazed me how quickly they felt like family again. It amazed me how easily everyone forgot about politics and religion and lifestyles and just accepted each other as family. I used to love to hate all of them from far away. I hated their ideas and their beliefs and their politics. They represented everything I fought against. It all melted away when I saw them. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite, but I stopped caring what they believe or how they live.

Everyone wanted to suspend time between the two trips, and let this one just be a continuation of the last. It worked somehow. Except for Max; he didn't come. I missed Max.

Toward the end and on the edges, some reality started to creep in, but we fended it off with plenty of alcohol. I jumped in head first. I jumped into the visceral nurturing of family and liquor, and I never wanted to come up for air. The years started to shed off of me right away. I was like a baby when I left, and, had I stayed, I may have ended up back in the womb. But that's what the ocean is, anyway, isn't it? I had no problem ending up there.

"...Obama and McCain..." Oh no, here comes reality. "...Guantanamo Bay..." Are they really playing the news somewhere? I haven't even gotten on the plane yet. I'm not ready for it. I finish my second bourbon, and the first one starts to kick in. The bartender thinks I'm so cute, and he's pretty cute, too, but I barely see him. I wonder if there's any part of the ocean waiting for me back home. Home. That's a laugh. Back homeless, I mean. I'll have to deal with that when I get back, too. That and Guantanamo Bay. But not Ingrid Betancourt, because somebody freed her while I was gone. All this time, and they rescue her while I'm gone. Talk about a cock-tease. We must have a thousand things in our database at work on her, waiting for the moment she's released, and then I'm not even there when it happens. Not that I am important. That's the point. Did I really think I gained some kind of control when I started following these stories? All I did was invest in the business of constantly feeling my impotency.

No, there is no ocean waiting for me there, no family, no nurturing. It's all cold thought. It's all talking talking talking. Everyone wants to get their word in.

Shh, shh. Just float.