A Gigantic Salt Bath

Last month, at a writers’ workshop, my teacher handed everyone gift bags. Mine had salt inside.

Salt?

For a salt bath, she said.

It’s healing, she said.

That’s cool, I said and stuffed my gift bag in my suitcase. I’ll take a salt bath one day – if I remember, I thought.

But I forgot.

Then, on Saturday, Ron and I flew to a happy little Dutch island off of the coast of Venezuela. It was 94 degrees, yellow sun, and a perfect breeze. An exploding white cloud drifted by. I heard someone call my name. It was the Caribbean Sea.

Hey girl, the Caribbean said. Come take a gigantic salt bath.

For four days I bobbed around her wild turquoise waters like a cork. I somersaulted and stretched out flat and wrapped my arms and legs around my husband so we could float and heal together. Even when I left the water to sit under a hut, sip a strawberry daiquiri, or walk the beach, the Caribbean stuck close by, white residue covering my arms, my legs, my hair.

Yesterday I left. I hated to go.

Come back again, the Caribbean said.

Now I’m catching up on phone calls, e-mail, and work. Blogs too. Then, tonight, I’m taking a bath. No turquoise sea, no sun, no strawberry daiquiri. But there will be candles and music and a glass of red wine. And there will be water and salt. Water and salt. Water and salt.