Wheeling Gull Isle santeria

@Coelacanth

Komodo had made it to the coast but it was not enough for him; the earthstalker had his sights set on something further than the shore.  It was a land that arose from the depths of the sea, just within his reach yet he was not able to grasp it. Brined currents stood sentry, the swells of which were timed so curiously with the placement of the sun in the sky. For a better part of the day, the mottled brute sat upon the western escarpments, high above the crashing of the waves, studying his subjected and attempting to understand its many wisdoms. When none revealed themselves to him, Komodo resigned himself to a baptism by fire, descended from the cliffs and traversed a beach that brought him to where tide kissed at the sand.

Without hesitation [but still with care], the shaman entered the water. The water that gurgled up from the deep ocean had not yet felt the touch of spring and immediately the man was struck by the chill of it. Komodo pushed on until he waded chest deep and his entire body felt weighted; and when he had to strain his neck to keep his visage above the channel’s waters, he kicked off the sand the methodical push-pull of swimming overtook his limbs. But the eremetic man was a forest wolf and not the most experienced swimmer; so the trek across the channel was an arduous one. Not once did he consider turning back, for he had already begun and Komodo was an all-or-nothing kind of man.

At last and with some difficulty, the channel had been crossed and finally Komodo hauled his corded frame from the waters, muscles fatigued but spirit buzzing with vitality. Thickset jaws were parted and tongue lolled out in an easy pant, the man swung his head to and fro, drinking in the fruits of his labor — the sight, smell and feel of the island beneath his paws.