The comfort of confused seas

I step from the hills and divots of dry sand to damp. My footprints follow me to the edge of this side of the world. I stand and wait for her to come to me, frothing and licking at my ankles, tying seaweed around my tight tendons and curling toes.
I am pulled in by the lights on the horizon. Fishing boats gleam in the gloomy dusk. That speck of white elicits a sense of excitement of an impending adventure even if none are on my charts at the moment. I face the beach, the land, the US and acknowledge the life I live here. There.
And I turn back around.

Calves submerged, the goosebumps on my thighs soon underwater. There are surfers right and left. I am boardless, wetsuitless. I wade deeper into an area of turbulence. The seas are coming from different directions, crashing into one another in irregular patterns.
One would say Confused.
I feel like a boat being tumbled and fought over by those confused, world-worn waves. I close my eyes and dream of being in the middle of the Atlantic, sails up, saltwater deluging the cockpit as the random waves hit us from behind and slide us off our course. I am that boat, drenched with surprises, pulled and pushed into conceding to deviations from my carefully plotted rhumb-line.
The waves talk to me through the wood and epoxy and say that even if they appear chaotic, each wave has it's own path and purpose. There is no confusion until their is resistance. Yet through that tension the wave is transformed or complimented or the energy is passed on so another wave can make it to Nova Scotia or Portugal or Brazil.
Or once again be sidetracked, absorbed, reinforced.
The energy never disappears.

I dive into the next breaking wave.
Fully immersed. 
Fully alive.
Fully clear on the beauty of confusion.