The Ocean

Daisy Chen, Canyon Crest Academy, graduating in 26' May 18, 2023

Artwork by Yuri "Ticket" Lee, Del Norte High School, '26

I loved the ocean. The soft lull of the waves transitioning to the smashing waves crashing against the eroded stone walls. The smell of sea salt lingering in the air, the feel of grainy sand sticking to my legs as I emerged from the confines of the water. The cerulean sea, blue as the sky and soft like a pearl. The ocean is my home.

The seabirds that hopped across the sand in search of scraps, their wings spread mid-flight. The hot summer days spent on the beach, laying on top of the sand soaking in its rays. The vendor that sold churros, three for five dollars, his gray hair sticking out underneath his red hat.

Ten years ago, 6:44…

My parents bought a house by the ocean, not a mansion with the big windows along the shore but a two-story house with blue walls, a few blocks down.

It took exactly 3 minutes and 28 seconds on bike to get from my house to the ocean. My siblings and I counted, my sister on one end and my brother on the other. I raced down the sidewalks, cutting corners and skidding down pavement. No one could beat my time. No matter how hard they pedaled and pushed their legs, they were always a second or two behind me. It was a title I held proudly and that day, I walked with my head held up and two arms swinging on either side.

Seven Years Ago, 10:51…

My father got me a surfboard on my eighth birthday; neon pink, with blue stripes and a yellow pineapple. I carried it out to sea with trembling hands and quivering legs.

The ocean is a barren place, the water pitch black, the waves towering above, crashing down with a splitting crash. The ocean crawling onto land, then inching back.

I dipped my toes in, freezing. My dad stretches on his surfboard, his belly flat on the board, his hands treading the water. He beckons to me, assuring that if I fall, there’s sand below my feet.

I gently lower my stomach onto the board, the feeling of my shoulder bones squishing against the board. My hands start to tread, feeling the rhythm of the waves.

6 Months Ago 2:19…

I am playing water polo with the boy next door. He has orange hair like pumpkin peels and white skin like sourdough. He is taller than me but not stronger. I easily beat him. After, he teasingly pushes me into the water. A world of blue fills my vision, an emptiness devoid of warmth, devoid of air. My body needs breath but my mind stays still. The body wins. I let my bubbles guide me up, breaking through the surface and gasping for air.

When I trudge onto shore, my lips are blue and legs numb. My mother rushes forward, her hands clutching my sides as she screams my name.

“You were under there for so long!” She says.

Through a mother’s eye, it is hours. Through a child's eye, it is an eternity.

She wraps a towel around me, her spindly fingers tightening around me, as if when she lets go, I will disappear. The boy is scolded and we go home. All is well.

Today, 4:28…

I am on a boat. A canoe or kayak, I am not sure. It is long and thin, painted red with a lightning zigzag. My sister bought it at a garage sale for cheap. Unsteadily, I get on the boat. There is a small hole on the side of the boat, the size of lemon or a fist. My paddle hits the water and I continue on. I go far, farther than I’ve ever gone before.

It is 86 degrees right now. The water is 72 degrees. Pausing, my hands frozen solid against the paddle. The seagulls fly overhead. The sun rays gleam. The vendor sells churros. Everything is fine.

Small waves push up against the boat, gentle reminders of the ocean. It is tranquil, a serene scene.

I should go back, I think.

With both hands, I take the paddle. One second, I am on the boat. The next, the water.

I look for bubbles. There are none. I reach for sand underneath my feet. There are none. I’ve gone too far.

My arms thrash for something to hold on to. The boat is floating away, like a folded origami boat made on a hot summer day, wasting away in the never-ending ocean.

The water currents push against me, throbbing me from side to side, shoving me into the path of the waves.

My arms flail, my feet tread, my mouth gasps for quick breaths of air between submersions. I see the coast, a thin line of gray. I cannot shout for help. I can only hope.

I cannot see, I cannot hear. The ocean confines me; it keeps me captive. I was wrong to think of it as anything else.

Today, 4:46

Someone must have seen me, eagle eyes and hawk sight, their voice rising in panic. They call for help, a noise quiet against the breaking waves. A boat is prepared, orange faded red, steady in the blowing wind.

I was a doll, they said, mouth stitched closed with cotton filled limbs and a stone heart.

The paramedics arrive, a white van with a red cross, two hands on my chest. It takes 18 minutes.

A piece of my heart died, drowned out at sea, forever held captive by the Ocean.

Three Years in the Future, 12:18

The sun shines above. The cold breeze licks at my skin. I look at the Ocean. It stares back.

I sit on a bench by the seaside. The seabirds have migrated to warmer lands, the sand beneath my shoes has frozen over, and the vendor, his son to be exact, sells churros. Two for five dollars now, his brown hair sticks underneath his red hat.

The Ocean waves shush in and out. It is inviting, like an old friend, hanging out for a midday chat.

It is 47 degrees right now. The water is 59 degrees.

The Ocean has eyes, lamprey eyes. It sucks the consciousness out of my body.

I want to run into the water, kick off my socks, and jump in. I want to float on top of the ice-cold waves. I want to sink beneath the surface, light vanishing from sight.

The vendor stares, his mouths form the words of a prayer, and he looks back at his churros.

One second, I am sitting. The next, I am running. I am flying across the frozen ground, my feet levitating. The water is ahead, hydrangea blue, crystal cut like a diamond.

Half of me floats, the other half sinks. I am split across two dimensions. One is free, the other is trapped. I am unaware of which is which.

Three Years in the Future, 12:25

How long have I lived? If my mind is home, then where does my body go? Questions circulate in my head. They bounce around like a pinball machine, ricocheting off each other.

Three Years in the Future, 12:27

Has it been too long? Someone must have noticed by now.

The vendor is on his phone, frantically typing numbers onto the screen. 911.

Consciousness slips between thoughts, far and few between. My body shouts for oxygen but the mind does not. Self-control ebbs away. The string is broken, snapped in half. I am home at last.