Carried Away

When I was a kid, each year we went to my mom's friend's house. They had a big mulberry tree in their garden (they still have it, I guess). I would climb the tree and stretch my hand to reach the most ripe mulberries. At first, I'm cautious. I would painstakingly pluck the mulberry, in a way that it doesn't stain my hand with its bloody color. It tastes good, somewhere in the abyss of sour and sweet. However, it wouldn't take long when redness prevails. I would be all bloody red. I shouldn't have resisted in the first place.
The same goes for the beach. I'd dabble at water. I'd intend to have my trouser on. I'm confident it wouldn't get wet. But the waves are treacherous, they wouldn't announce their unexpected presence, they would claim their victim: soaked trouser.
That's it. There are certain things in life that you can't carry them out perfectly without giving yourself wholeheartedly in. You can't enjoy the juicy mulberries without risking your skin and clothes get filthy as much as you can't enjoy ocean without getting wet.