My Shower in Zeballos

In Zeballos, I ran early in the morning.

From heavy seasonal rains, forest veins of water made their way to the sea. Every 100 yards or so these water lines gushed open from above, establishing waterfalls that crashed onto the gravel road where my feet pounded. Their beauty varied as each one molded and shaped itself a different path over rock and moss.

I felt spray periodically as I ran by them. Their waters were just shy of becoming ice, by far colder than this early Spring rain that danced around me. My clothes were saturated, and my flesh chilled. A warm shower would have been a relief, but there was none where I was staying. Generally, I love any opportunity to bath in river or lake. Absence of humanity, any one of these falls would make a perfect spot. Better left for summer given this temperature of water and air. Oh, but they would be dried beds by July.

It was the only opportunity.

I could stand barely seconds. In for a burst of heart-pounding cleansing and out when agony won out. Repeat five times.

It wasn’t comfort by any stretch of the brain. Yet, every part of me was touched. Water, cold, and air pricked every cell and ricocheted through every vein. And I was alive. Alive like never before.