Sea
I’m not a beach person. I find wet sand unpleasant, salt-water irritates my skin, and I’m uncomfortable exposing my body in front of others. Most of all, I’m turned off by the ocean itself: its foreign nature seems almost sinister—and I feel like venturing too far could wash me away. But I didn’t always feel this way.
Growing up so close to the beautiful Southeast–Asian oceans, my family and I spent many a weekend at the local beaches. We built sand-mermaids–gorgeous to a five-year old’s eye–gazed in awe at kites floating in the afternoon breeze, and challenged each other to wade far into the open sea.
A couple years later, we traveled across Australia or New Zealand—I can’t exactly recall—on vacation. Australasian seas are famous for their clear turquoise shimmer and rainbow corals. Perhaps this is why my family chose to go. Though I barely recall the specificities, I can still see the clear blue skies and clear blue waves. I remember exiting the rented car and stepping down for a short stop at the beach. The waves were big and loud, and I had not yet faced anxiety or self-consciousness. I was young. I loved sand. I didn’t mind getting wet. I had no fears of a swimsuit.
As I strayed along the shore, I stood in bright-blue water no higher than my ankle. Marveling at the smell of the sea, I was lost at the sight of the gulls flying above. I like to think I felt out of the world then, the beach turning into a dream-like experience in a foreign land. The ocean was no nemesis of mine—it couldn’t be—it had done me no harm. So I waded out further. What followed may have been strike one.
I tried standing strong in the crashing waves, but alas, I was not strong enough. My delicate feet lost what little stability they had as the waves forced me face-first into the sea. I had no swimsuit on, no towel, no nearby shower. My parents rushed over and plucked me out of the water—not to pity me, but mostly just to laugh at my fall. Back then, I probably cried, embarrassed as my parents took me back to the car to change my sea-sullied clothes. Seven-year-old me blasphemed the sea that day.
My attempt at forgiveness resulted in strike two. I was in fifth grade when my family and I went scuba diving in Thailand’s waters, which are known for being warm and beautiful. It was a hot and humid day, and my sweat stuck to my skin like honey. Miles out from the shore, I plunged into the water, sweat washing off. In that moment, I was a fluttering fish. I had become one with the wonderful ecosystem of sea turtles, angelfish, parrotfish, and clownfish—like the ones from Finding Nemo. It was beautiful, smooth sailing, smooth diving. I wanted to believe that the sea would do me no further harm. And until then, it hadn’t.
On my last dive of the trip, I was up for certification. All I had to do was complete the dive—a piece of cake. Planning to fly with my fishy friends one last time, I eagerly rolled out of the boat into the ocean. But I could not dive deep enough to find my friends.
The usually inviting water stung me, sea lice within the water gnawing at my skin. Thrashing, I rushed to the surface, estranged from the ocean I once so enjoyed. I tried to remember the ocean that wasn’t so unkind to me, but as my skin continued to ache red and sharp, the ocean’s rejection engulfed me whole.
I haven’t gone to the beach in years. Whenever it was brought up by family or friends, I’d wrinkle my nose in distaste—that is, until Telunas. On our English class retreat to the Indonesian island, I tried to keep an open mind. I packed a modest swimsuit and hoped for the best. Perhaps because the sea and I had lost touch since my younger days, when our ferry landed on the island, I unexpectedly found the sea calling me back in.
It was hard to ignore the ocean’s call there: first in the heat, as we sweat and tired, the sea told me its waters could cool me down. Then in the dim meeting rooms, the waves whispered how relaxing they would be to float on, how I should just leave my plastic chair and jump in the aquamarine sea. And when I was finally back in my room with my friends, I knew I had to put on my swimsuit and skip down to Telunas’ soft sand.
And the plunge in the water was delightful. Emilie, my friend from the other English course, and I floated around, chatting about everything and nothing. I heard the slow waves carry our laughs across the water. I was again happy to be in the sea.
As we finally quieted down and relaxed our bodies, I let the waves take over and carry us back to the shore. And as each new wave crashed onto the beach, it did not throw us; it nudged us forward little by little, and I thanked it for allowing me in, forgiving the sea for again enticing me so.
Perhaps there will be no strike three.