How
the Ocean Holds Me
AS
I SLIPPED beneath the surface, the world above
me faded, muffled by the water that welcomed me.
The gentle waves rocked me back and forth, their
rhythm steady and calming — a pulse beneath me
that mirrored my heartbeat. Sunlight filtered
through the water, casting golden beams that
danced across my skin, illuminating the reef
beneath me. I closed my eyes and let myself
float effortlessly, weightless. With each slow
inhale through my snorkel, I felt a deep sense
of peace, as if the ocean itself was breathing
alongside me.
I
opened my eyes and kicked gently, gliding
forward with slow, deliberate movements. Below
me, the reef stretched out like an intricate
city, full of twisting coral structures and
hidden crevices where parrotfish grazed and
damselfish darted. A school of sergeant majors
swam by, their black and yellow stripes flashing
as they moved in perfect unison. I let myself
sink slightly, feeling the weight of my body
give way to the ocean’s gentle pull. I reached
out, fingers grazing the water in front of me,
wanting to get closer, to feel more, to absorb
every detail. Remember this, I thought to
myself. Remember how the ocean carries you,
how the water hums softly in your ears, how the
light flickers on the ocean floor. Hold onto
this moment as if it were the last.
Because
part of me was afraid that it was.
During a study abroad trip to
the Caribbean to research coral reefs and ocean
acidification, Sara Abraha finds herself
blindsided by the emotional weight of seeing a
reef that felt more like a memory than a living
world. |
