A flock of morning surfers, speck-sized, swam on their boards to greet large sapphire-blue waves.
This was a promising start to her Australian life.
She stared at her watch. It was a bright orange, cheap-looking Casio.
A happy-looking watch suggestive, she hoped, of a happy-feeling life.
It was just after nine a.m. here. Next to her watch was a plastic wristband with a key on it.
So, this was her morning ritual here. In an outdoor swimming pool beside a beach.
She wondered if she was here alone. She scanned the pool hopefully for any sign of Izzy, but none was there.
She swam some more. The thing she had once loved about swimming was the disappearing.
In the water, her focus had been so pure that she thought of nothing else.
Any school or home worries vanished. The art of swimming – she supposed like any art – was about purity.
The more focused you were on the activity, the less focused you were on everything else.
You kind of stopped being you and became the thing you were doing.
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