Choppy Water

Four of us are walking on a dock. It is dusk. The couple walks behind a friend and I. The water is icy blue, the light growing dusky. It seems like it is cold, but I do not feel the cold. The dock narrows. We step closer, arm in arm, keeping to the middle. The water is close to the surface of the dock. We walk on. Soon we come to a place where the dock steps down, and a bit of water is on its' surface. We stumble. One of my feet goes in the water. I find it lucky that I have rubber boots on. Since I'm down, I decide to travel on my hands and knees. That way it won't be so like walking a tightrope. I scoot on. Then my friend and I are at the end of the dock, just sitting there—looking out at the waves. It is almost like we are riding in a boat. I feel the thrill of danger. Waves come at us—not too large, but large enough to rock the dock, but not swamp us. Then a huge machine, half boat, half street cleaner comes in, sees us, pulls back, barely avoiding crashing into the dock. We leave, frightened, but thrilled by being so close to the flow.

Interpretation: This is an interesting dream. I went on an overnight retreat with a friend. I'd say that a lot of the retreat was spent in newness. We were staying at a couples' house. Our plan was to write, but we were also to be spontaneous with hikes and meals and creating some jewelry. It was fun—and there was a degree of tension—sort of the excitement of something new kind of tension.