“Do you know a cure for me?”

“Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.”

“Salt water?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.”

― Karen Blixen, Seven Gothic Tales

When I think of the sea as a cure, I think of soaking, like an epsom-salt bath on a large scale. Salt-water soaking is helpful for inflammation, skin infections, cuts and pain relief. It has a calming, soothing effect on the body and the mind. The benefit of salt water to the outside of the body mirrors the good that comes when salt water flows from the inside in sweat and tears.

I feel a special connection to the ocean. Growing up in Southern California, my family drove from our inland home to the beach on weekend and summer days. We stayed into the evening, cooking hotdogs around a fire ring on the beach. All day, my sisters, cousins and I were either in the waves playing or in the sand resting before getting back in the water.

We played in and with the waves–leaping up and over them, falling backwards into them, trying to catch them and ride them into the shore, or ducking under them to avoid getting picked up and tossed around, especially careful to stay clear of what we called the “recycle zone,” the shallow water where the waves crashed and swirled and filled our hair and swimsuits with sand.

Going past where the waves break, we liked to swim in the deeper water and calm swells. I have happy memories of floating on my back and loving the roller coaster feeling of the swells. The water at San Clemente, our favorite beach, was dark and opaque; I couldn’t really see my legs or what exactly was brushing past them. I’m sure it was usually just kelp, but I was always a little afraid of what I could not see under the water.

The movie Jaws came out when I was 12. I was too young to see the R-rated film, but I knew the gist, I’d seen the poster–a big, toothy beast could be coming up from the deep to eat me. I still swam, trusting, I suppose, that the lifeguards would call everybody in if they saw menacing fins out there. If I was floating, it felt a little safer because I could see my feet.

I don’t play in the waves much these days, but I still love floating. It connects me back to those carefree days of childhood. It’s more than that, though–soaking and floating in sea water is soothing whether you have those memories or not.

There’s something about just letting go, trusting the buoyancy of the human body and sea water to hold me at just the right level, ears in the water, muffling the outside noise with the swishing, tumbling noise of the surf, and face far enough above the surface to breathe easily. The salty water complements human bodies of salty blood, sweat and tears and creates a comfortable cradle where it’s safe to lose touch with the sand and just be, floating and rocking with the waves. It feels primordial; it’s like a return to the womb. It’s a mind and body reset.

To float, I have to let go of the fear of sinking, of the need to touch the bottom, and of knowing exactly what is coming next. Losing touch with what’s outside, I can be quiet with what’s inside.

Some people don’t like to float. They sink, or they can’t relax, feeling the need to hold themselves up, crunching their belly and trying to lift their legs and torso, fighting to keep their head up. I get it–that is not relaxing. That doesn’t cure anything.

It’s ok to use pool noodles under your legs and arms. It’s ok to lay in shallow water (stay out of the recycle zone). It’s ok to float on a blow-up raft. Keep trying. You might love it as much as I do.

The three-part saltwater cure makes sense to me. The sweat, the tears and the sea water all in some way wash away what is harmful and connect to what is healing: Sweating and working, crying and listening, floating and letting go.