She hadn’t anticipated the cold.
She knew this wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, not that there were many stories about how it was supposed to be, but comfort was really the last thing you could expect, at least while you were actually doing it. Even pills would make you nauseated.
Her original plan was to bury her clothes in the sand before walking into the water. The outgoing tide was so swift that at its full it made a dimple a hundred yards offshore. She wouldn’t need to swim far, though she was a strong swimmer. A champion, she thought scornfully. Yeah, right. Some champion.
Christ, but it was cold. Even taking her jacket off was almost intolerable. Depending on what you believed, the next step would take you to a tunnel of light or all your loved ones or the next life.
She didn’t believe any of that anyway.
Sunday Photo Fiction, 150 words