Island Child

While the white sand beaches of The Bahamas resembled the fresh Rocky Mountains’ snow, moving from mountain to sea was a delightful world. Listening to “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys, we landed on a little island, with no worries, and more often than not, no electricity.

I was put in the local elementary school, with a total of 10 students in a single room. We put on seasonal plays, where we practiced in our best costumes. Mom made sure I was good in science and English by, respectively, practising dissecting dead fish on the beach and writing four sentences daily. Both were very fun. However, what I excelled for in writing was lost in “dress code”, where my tie was often missing and I wore the wrong uniform blazer - proper dressing was never a priority. I loved running right into the ocean after school let out, pulling my uniform off on the beach as I went. My parents quickly gave up on trying to untangle my hair, so matted with salt and sand that I’d scream at the sight of a hair brush, instead, convinced that dreadlocks would be the way to go. The scissors got to me first, in haphazard chunks my hair was kept short for the sea and bleached blonde in the sun.

Weekends were spent from morning to night at the bar down the road, where my friends and I became dolphins, mermaids, and pirates all day in the pool and sea. We’d pick out the prettiest beads and have our hair braided by a lady that smelled like coconut warmed by the sun. I remember being jealous of the adults’ pretty pink frozen drinks, and would be drunk on pride when I’d steal a sip from my mom’s glass. A dinner of “chicken in the bag” or caribbean Mac n’ Cheese held a first place spot in my heart, and still holds no rival to this day. For snacks after school we’d munch on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, goldfish and honey buns from the corner store.

For transportation, my bare feet brought me as far as they could go, running across the hot roads and all over jagged rocks. Though my bare soles were tough as leather, my dad bought me a sparkly, pink four-wheel bike, which I learned to ride on the dramatically steep (they seemed at the time) hills scattered around the town. I’d sometimes try my hand at driving the golf cart, his foot on the accelerator as I sat in his lap, swinging the wheel around on the muddiest dirt roads like a captain. When we got a boat, I’d always sit at the bow, face pointed to the wind as we raced across the turquoise water.

On the sailboat, I was a loyal swab, and kept the decks sparkling clean under the captain’s (dad’s) orders. On longer sailing expeditions, we’d grill up freshly caught fish, even getting stranded on a desert island once. I felt like I could own that sandbar, set up a castle and be a pirate princess right then and there. But then, by morning we had set sail again, and the wide open sea captivated my soul once again.

We always stayed close to the ocean. We sailed often, and even back on the island we’d swim every day. On clear nights, we’d huddle up on the upper porch to sleep outside, gazing at the stars. The steady ocean waves lulled us to sleep, safe from mosquitoes under a tropical breeze. The ocean was usually kind, a gorgeous, glittering turquoise blue that would hold us in its warm embrace. Corals were teeming with life and color: purples, oranges, blues, reds, greens and whites like I’d never seen before. I could name every fish, yelling out their species through bubbles in my snorkel. Every sunrise there was a little nurse shark that’d peruse the coast while we walked in the morning. We affectionately named him Sharky. Since Sharky was our harmless friend, I was rather comfortable around sharks, although getting circled by a much bigger reef shark was a more harrowing experience.

The ocean could be terrible. I admired my mother who could watch the tides, the clouds and winds so attentively. Turns in the weather could mean nasty storms, keeping us shuttered up at home. While palm trees bent under the rain, the ocean became dark, frothing and frantic. It’d swallow the beach whole, coming right up to our dune, bubbling black and crashing against rocks. Storms in the island always felt deeper, stronger than anything else by their whirling tropical tempests. We always fled hurricane season, not being able to bear the destruction they brought every year.

Then, the sun would scatter the clouds again. The clear sky was mirrored perfectly on a glassy sea, whose tide gently lapped at the beach. It almost seemed apologetic and shy, sweetly enticing. Coconuts scattered the roads and the land became green with dew again. And so life carried on again, but always living with the knowledge that the weather is the land and sea’s greatest commander. I adore and fear nature. Having always grown up in the forest or in the ocean, I feel I am more intensely aware of its power.

The greatest healer, the most beautiful source of energy, the most tantalizing space to cradle my lost soul. For me, the ocean holds all of that whom I once was.

I find myself in those corners of the island, places marked by the ring of our laughter and a handprint here and there. Finding friends with whom I used to run wild and free on the beach, playing endlessly in the sun, I feel a sort of disbelief to see that we’re all tall now. I won’t say “grown up”, because with some friends, we always feel like happy kids together. It doesn’t matter how far we’ve moved, how our bodies have shape shifted, how we fit into different boxes only adults make. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter because inside there’ll always be that little kid throwing tantrums, craving sweets, spilling paint on the paper, and running on the beach.

There, at the ocean’s call, I return to the island child that I once was.