The Water Asks Me Questions
My feet are halfway buried in the sand. I inhale deeply and smell salt—a familiar scent. My eyes are closed. The vibrant red painting the interior of my eyelids tells me the sun is there, shining fiercely. I feel its heat on my arms and embracing my face. The waves’ incessant lapping at the shore is like an old song, a mother’s lullaby. I hear people talking and laughing, like background actors in a movie. A quick shadow makes the red vanish. A bird. I open my eyes to follow its path and realize I’m smiling. This isn’t home, but it feels like it as I stand on McGee Beach in Corpus Christi, inches from the Gulf of Mexico, my new version of the ocean.
I was born and raised in the Caribbean, in Puerto Rico, and I’ve always lived close to the ocean, less than half a mile from Isla Verde Beach and little more than that from Pine Grove Beach. As I grew up, the beach became the place I went when I wanted to think, to spend time with friends, to soak up the sun, and to recharge. It was also a place that made me feel small. The beach was there for a few heartbreaks, a couple of fights, and several other events that taught me about the fleeting nature of happiness and how hard we must fight to hold on to every speck of it we get. The beach was where I realized friendships aren’t forever and life mercilessly pulls people in different directions. The beach was the place I went when I
