Like the Water
I
As it currently stands, I have had one near-death experience – although I suppose all experiences are near-death experiences, because what is closer to death than life? I suppose it's more accurate to say that I have had only one moment in my life during which it was unclear whether I would continue living.
I was on Cape Cod with my parents for a two-week vacation. I was eight years old and had swum in the ocean only once before. I wasn't a great swimmer, and my parents were hesitant to let me out in the water much deeper than my waist. It didn't matter, though, because as I had discovered, body surfing was more fun than swimming anyway. All I had to do was crouch or lie down in the sand just at the water's edge and wait for a wave. The wave would pick me up, retreat out to the ocean, and I would ride it back to shore. I had perfected the exercise to a science: I knew exactly where to lie so the wave would touch me at just the right moment. I knew when to close my eyes and mouth to avoid as much of the salty sting as I could. I could have stayed at the beach and body surfed for days; I could have lived there and been perfectly happy.
That was probably what I was thinking when an unusually aggressive wave snatched me the one time I wasn't prepared and swept me out underneath it, further than I was allowed to go. Water poured into my nose and mouth and I was vaguely aware of my mother screaming and my father leaping from his beach chair and running to my aid. By the time he reached me, the wave had already spat me back out on the sand.
“Are you okay?” my mother asked frantically as she rushed to my father's side.
“I'm fine,” I choked, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“I was about to jump in and save you,” my father remarked.
I shrugged. “There's sand in my hair.”
* * *
The next day, after having showered twice and still not removed all the sand from my thick, curly hair, I wondered whether I really could just as easily have died. If I got swept out far enough, I figured, I would reach a tiny uninhabited island and live the rest of my life out there, or a friendly dolphin would come and rescue me and return me to my family. How odd that I, an abnormally anxious child, worried about the house spontaneously catching fire or a tornado ravaging my quiet New England neigborhood, was completely nonplussed about being swept out to sea.
II
I am a mermaid in the frigid waters of the Arctic Circle where everything is blue and misty and the barking of the seals at night is the most beautiful music anyone has ever heard. I am everything I desire to be, living where I belong in the world. My tail is at once silver and all the colors of the rainbow and more; come April when the Northern Lights are brightest, it is a hundred shades of spectacular. My hair, long, wavy, and dark, clinks when I turned my head, full of seashells, and it smells constantly of salt and promise.
My friends – the whales and selkies – and I spend our days sunning ourselves on the rocks, regaling each other with adventure stories and the kind of laughter that only comes from pure abandon. When ships pass us, we call out to them – not luring them to destruction or oblivion, but simply reassuring them that there are still beautiful things in the world. Our voices, mixed with the cacaphony of the open sea and the distant hum of the sailors' vessels, float high above us and disappear into the clouds, a song of calmness and longing. At night we tuck ourselves under the moon and the clear midnight water, safe and as warm as we need to be.
* * *
I am a real mermaid, not some doe-eyed cartoon with her breasts covered by scallop shells, pining desperately for some adventure she doesn't already have and a man she doesn't need. What I have is all I need, and if I never see land again I think I will be fine. No one can take anything from me; my strength and agility is mine alone and my voice belongs to the sea. I am so real, so achingly beautiful and real, that I couldn't possibly give away anything useful in the first place.
I don't wish for love because the sea is full of passion; I don't fear anything because it is empty of fear and devastation. Below its surface I am untouchable, but I am always loved. In the water I am weightless and graceful, and I swim for hours without a destination. Always alone, never lonesome, I don't know where I am but I know I am home.
III
The last time I went swimming, I was supervising a group of small children in an over-chlorinated swimming pool that smelled like chemicals and stale sweat. My hair was wet and bone-dry at the same time; it was damp to the touch but completely sucked dry of everything from the chlorine. Even below the water's surface, I could feel my skin start to flake, and I regretted leaving my tote bag with my lotion in it all the way back at childcare headquarters. There was hardly a dry spot on the ceramic tile deck, and the water that had once been cool and refreshing in the pool was now clammy and stagnant like that last dreg of water left in the bathtub after a shower.
“No running!” my co-worker called to an enthusiastic little girl at the same time a six-year-old boy got ready to jump into the deep end.
“Jump here,” I told him, motioning to the shallow end of the pool. “Let's stay in the shallow end.”
I couldn't help but wonder if this was what animals in cages must feel like, remembering their natural habitats in an artificial substitute. Still, I was happy I got to swim at all, and for the ten seconds I spent underwater free of the echoey sounds of children and lifeguards, I pretended I was hearing the call of seagulls in the distance. I pretended that my swimsuit was a giant piece of seaweed wrapped around my body – undersea armor. I pretended I had a tail. I pretended I was me and that I was home.
* * *
I remember the past and I dream of what I could be in my next life, and in the here and now, I'm resigned to stepping over puddles and imagining them to be a thousand feet deep with life and mystery spiraling inside them.
I'm content to sprawl out on a towel on the beach, any beach, with sunscreen slathered on every exposed inch of my body and a book in my hands. I pretend to read, watching children and their families frolicking in the waves and remembering when I was that young and innocent. I wonder whether any of them will experience a moment like I did and whether they will carry it with them as I have. I pretend to read, letting my imagination venture to the mermaid homes that undoubtedly lie farther out than I can see, deeper underwater than I can swim.
It's hot, and I stand in line at the beach café. If I can't be a mermaid yet, I can enjoy the flavor of vanilla ice cream, sweet and creamy, and the chocolate coating that sticks to my fingers like the sand to my feet. It melts quickly in the afternoon sun, and I eat the treat as fast as I can before it melts. It's refreshing and it cools my whole body, and the mess that remains on my hands and arms – and the little bit that's fallen onto my swimsuit – gives me an excuse to jump into the surf and clean myself off.
I'm content, but I wonder all the same. Is my body simply a temporary holding place for my mermaid self, waiting for my current life to end so I can be released into my real home? Maybe I'm just myself for now, a legged woman stuck in a holding pattern until it's time for me to be free. How much longer will I have to wait?
FANNAAAAA! This is wondyful! It's really insightful into your mind, which is cool, because it's honest. I like the bit where you ponder why yoyu're not anxious about being swept to sea. I wish you'd explored that more directly. Vera naace, baby.
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