I've never stepped on a stingray

This time we had to shuffle into the waves.
Two more people had been stung by stingrays.
After fifteen seasons without being stung,
I was shuffling into a swarming flotilla
of stingrays - stiffening, floundering.
The stingrays darted over the seafloor
trapping me where the fresh and salt water mixed.

Waves slapped out the mantra,
shuffle so you don't step on the stingrays.

Our relationship had been skittering away
far before this last visit to the bay,
but somehow we didn't know that.
We fell into step on the beach again.
It was part of our arrival at the bay ritual:
roll down the windows, smell the salt water,
listen for the gulls' cry, splash into the tide - laughing.

Waves slapped out the mantra,
shuffle so you don't step on the stingrays.

One of the things I learned from you
was to love the ocean, to trust it,
to cool down by taking off my shirt -
wrapping it into a turban on my head,
dropping down on my knees in the waves.
With my dry shirt protecting my sunburned head,
I learned to love the frigid drenching.

Waves slapped out the mantra,
shuffle so you don't step on the stingrays.

Again, tiny wavelets played off the shore
echoing through the inlet where we walked.
You began collecting shells from the wrack line,
something I had taught you to love.
Alone in the water I saw the spade-shaped wings
fluttering on the muddy bottom.

Waves slapped out the mantra,
shuffle so you don't step on the stingrays.

I found myself chanting childhood prayers,
that froze above the hum of the ocean current,
before blurting obscenities and running to you
with recklessly high steps, unharmed.