"Drifting Waters"

Those days will never end, but those days are long since gone when the beach would share my bed at night and an entire ocean lived in my backyard.

The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans are not too unlike; they're exactly the same, really. Both have green and blue waves. When you look at them from high enough in the air, those huge carpets spread far away across the ground beneath you, farther than the eye can see. A Persian blue rug that is so thick your feet sink into it like quicksand. And when you look a little closer, their colors can vary. Greens and other blues get mixed into the design. You see not just the overall blue of the rug, but now you see green splotches and bright blue strands weaving their way through the picture. There is a white border to the carpet as it breaks against the shore.

I spent a week in Mexico once. It was over spring break in the sixth grade. Our days and nights were spent almost entirely on the beach. It was how we passed the time; it was the point of taking the trip. My cousin's legs were missing, but he wouldn't let that get in his way. He pushed out of his seat and his covering fell more like ashes than grains down around him. I remember looking up at him as he stood on the beach with the sunlight bouncing off his hair. My little cousin had a halo.

We swam a lot in the ocean. I couldn't go out far enough to satisfy my desires though. I remember pushing into the waters in great detail. I refused to let the waves conquer me. They tried to push me back, but I only pushed back harder and dove my way through. Under and up, under and up, over and over again, wave after wave. It was cold, and it was salty. I would get slapped across the face if I weren't quick enough to duck. When we stopped, the people on the beach were less than five inches tall. We could hear nothing except out own splashes as we swam, the waves gently swelling around us, and the seagulls floating overhead. Well, I know that logically I would have heard all those things, but all I remember is that at the time everything melted away but the cries of those birds. They sang to me. The sirens were calling to me and trying to draw me further and further into their cold embrace. It was like a world in itself out there, drifting away in the ocean. I could have spent eternity there if I'd had the chance. The feeling it gave me was in ways indescribable, like being completely apart from the world I'd always known and part of another, hidden and secret one that I had never seen before that moment. Part of a world I couldn't help but be drawn towards.

But then, my halo cousin felt something brush against his leg, and we let the waves help us make the swim back to shore. What was it? A fish? Seaweed? A manatee? We never did find out. I remember thinking that maybe he just got scared of how far out we were and wanted to go back. Maybe he thought he felt something, but didn't really. Maybe he just didn't hear the sirens like I did.

There were other worlds on the shore, too. When the tide went out, it left little pools of water all along the beach. In those small pools, we stumbled across many different lives. While we met nothing so large and regal as a sea cow, we encountered many other strangely enticing creatures. We found sand dollars, starfish, even some with missing limbs, shrimp, and a great deal more. I remember starfish with long, stringy legs that would drift in the water. Their white threads would flow back and forth, constantly waving a heartbreaking good-bye to their sweetheart as they parted ways forever. But most enthralling of all the creatures we found in those tide pools was the Spanish Dancer. I've looked since then, but pictures don't do her justice. I remember watching her dance so many times; I could never forget her. It's her movements, the flare of her skirt as she tangos across the floor that are so mesmerizing. Her scarlet dress makes her stand out among the rest and requests, no, demands your attention. She will not be denied. And I could never resist her. I remember watching her dance around pools, across the shore, and for my family. She danced for herself, but she danced for me sometimes, too.

The Pacific was always cold. So stunningly cold. But it was the acrid smell of the water that always bothered me. It bullied me around with its nearly tangible scent. It would smack me in the face and force me to taste the bitterness. Even when I managed to escape punishment quite that harsh, the Pacific was never really kind to me. I remember how cruel the Pacific could be.

You couldn't take one step out of our backdoor before your foot hit the sand. It wasn't a very populated stretch of beach, though. Maybe those living in the apartments around ours found the novelty of having the entire Atlantic Ocean in their backyard less enchanting than I did. Or maybe the beach in general just wasn't fun for them anymore. After all, Florida was full of them. I don't know. But I still found it fun. I only have one memory of seeing anyone besides my family there.

My friend and I made a sand castle, but we cheated. We found large flat rocks and stood them up before covering them with wet sand to make it look as though we'd really constructed them. The process was tedious, as though we were working too hard for it to be a game. We had to fill our bucket, and then I believe we went to the shore and wet the sand. Or maybe we got wet sand from by the waves? But then we had to dig the sand out and plaster it to our walls. We built one complete wall, and covered half of a second before we got bored and probably tired and moved on to something else. I never was successful at building a sand castle. We moved to Arizona after that so my chance has forever slipped through my fingers, the same as the grains of sand always did.

Salt became a part of my being during those times. Most people would remember the smell of salt when they remember the ocean, but I don't. Or at least, not alone. Instead that scent comes with the sand which forces its way between my toes. It comes with the wind which dances with my hair. It comes with the watery depths that ate my soul, with the watery depths that became my soul. It comes vaguely to my senses when I feel the warmth of the sun brushing against my skin. It is with me now, that slight tang that fills my entire being, whose essence spills into mine until I can no longer tell who is who.

My friends and I were on the beach everyday. The Banana River floated gloriously through the land just beyond a ditch in our backyard. What better place for a bunch of seven and eight-year-old children?

It may sound unbelievable, but I met a manatee there. It was so long ago, but I still remember. Do I remember? Yes, I remember her. I met a manatee there. She swam right up next to us within ten feet of the shore, as close as she could get, and let us pet her. I reached out a hand to touch her. The huge gray beast felt rough against my small hand. Her small black beady little eyes kept watch on us. She moved slowly, as though she had all the time in the world. Maybe she was a wife on a visit to her parents and that river was the tunnel she had to pass through. Perhaps I should have been frightened of her because I think she was as big as my two friends and myself combined or maybe larger, but I wasn't. I did have one brief flash of fear when I first saw her, I think; she looked so gentle, so encouraging, so alone. It was as though she needed the company. As large as she was, I couldn't be afraid of someone so obviously that kind. My mother remembers when I met that manatee. I went home and told her all about it. I only remember seeing my hand reach out towards that monstrous back as she stared up at me. My mother told me that we saw dolphins there as well. They never came near us, but we saw them a number of times, swimming in the distance. They were probably carefree and living the high life as they played in the river. I don't remember any of it though.

We would watch men fishing on the dock. We'd find shells every day, mostly clam remains. I don't really remember where they came from. Though I do have a vague memory of meeting one boy who said he used them for fish bait, I think. I thought he was seventeen or eighteen but my mother says was thirteen or so. Perhaps other fishers did the same and left them there. The shells weren't the prettiest; their gray surface shone as bright as any others though. And they had one great advantage over all the rest: sometimes we would find two large clamshells still connected to each other. We made talking clams with those or hid our treasures and pearls inside of them.

I never swam. I couldn't swim. I wanted to, but I couldn't. It was still fun though, playing on the beach and in the surf. I remember watching my neighbors and their mother swimming in the ocean one day while I stood with a bucket and a shovel in my hand. The orange sun was setting behind them, and they splashed in the water. I remember the pang I felt in my chest that I only half understood at the time.

The Pacific and Atlantic Oceans don't seem too different, yet they are completely unlike one another to me. The Pacific was brutal unless you were out far enough to gain your freedom like I once was. It whispers of a torrent of fury, a ceaseless plethora of potential misery and bitterness for every hour of comfort that it offers. The Pacific murmurs in my ear, tickling me as it does, of the complete submersion I could one day face at its hands, absolutely left to its mercy, while the Atlantic only gently hums a promising encouragement. I remember deep blue waters in the Atlantic, with Persian blue waves breaking against the shore. However, the Pacific had murky, green waters. It was more of a hunter green, with a bit of gray mixed in at certain areas. Though the Pacific was the ocean who first allowed me freedom, I must say I will always wish to lose myself in the Atlantic. Its cerulean blue depths fed into my soul and left me overcrowded with happiness. Didn't they? Yes, they always did. The warm waters would wash over me like a bath.

A whole ocean used to live in my backyard, and the beach used to share my bed every night. Those days are long since gone, but oh, those days will never end.