Rough Waters copyright 1976 by Tracy Marks Here in Greece in October, I am learning how to swim in rough, cold waters. I prepare myself by wading at first, sprinkling handfuls of waters upon my chest and shoulders. Then hesitantly I enter, allowing time for my body to adjust, my will be set before I plunge and swim away from shore. I am most content with the breast stroke because it allows me to reach out, pull back, and then glide in an inward position, my arms and legs clasped together, my body a unit, self-contained and protected. Often when I find myself surrounded by people who thrive on the exchange of banalities, I experience the same shock of coldness as I do when I swim in these alien waters. I am able to relax and participate only when I feel I do not have to involve myself for hours in conversation, when I know that soon I will be able to envelope myself in the soothing presence of a friend with whom I share a common language, or descend into the warm and familiar recesses within me where words are altogether unnecessary.

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