The Sea

The day of oscillating light came about. My brother and I went to see about a sea. We were taken—I should say. Dad, baby, Mum, my brother and I. It was our first time, at least that I can remember. The radio plays song after song, an old war in between. Dad driving, Mum and baby laughing; my brother and I riding in the back

Morn’ was alight with glittering diamonds in the millions sparkling gleefully over that vast blue. What a greeting it was. What a greeting indeed! It was, after all—our first time.

The welcome mat rolled endlessly beyond the barren hills of San Andrés, which appeared to encrust themselves stubbornly into the sea as if searching for something deep beneath its entrails. Here, the sea was king. Everything found its way to and from its bowels; everything found meaning in its every gesture. It captured my eyes more than anything else I had ever seen, or would ever see. Transfixed, I felt obliged to speak, to utter a sound, even if it was but gibberish. Yes, what a welcome it was!

Like miniature stars, the sands glistened over the dark arms of Vulcan—builder of continents and of Atlantis. They hummed softly, purring in mimicry to the ocean’s wavering dance. They were lashed over and over again by Magellan’s threads and the cries of Niño’s lost galleons. This was Vasco’s peaceful sea, oscillation at its best.

We chased them all, my brother and I, as every wake appeared, then forever disappeared. I was blinded. I have been blinded since.

We run around in spider singlets and flips and flops; we run around, splashing, dashing and chasing every wave, like Frank and Henry whom appeared on that old photo album cover (smiles). They looked so happy— brother and brother: Brother to brother, arm to arm.

We inflate the salty air with nylon, with brand-new plastic and rubber, made in China (which, by the way, was not far from there). We took up our places. Sails, mast and paddles, though rudder we did without, having only a washed-up palm tree branch for tiller and tail.

Blow after blow, La Niña is raised from its murky, sunken grave. Its two sisters, we regret to inform, will not be so lucky today.

Still, nothing is there to stop us, winds and tides along our naves. Prometheus, full speed ahead! To the Canary Islands, or the Coast of Ivory in a day! (I often forget now, but I was once from the tropics.)

We discovered land that day, too. I walked. I walked on water to the shore. There, I see a horse. Platero, an animal. My skinny self—half dead, digging trenches in the sea. He is jealous of La Niña. His eyes, swollen chestnuts burnt in coal-like black, look at me and cling. But remember, I am blind and yet they still thirst in the heat of morning’s ten to ten. It is a look from that bottomless sea, from insanity and despair.

I feel sympathy. He thirsts. Then suddenly, in a fit of rage, I thirst too, and so I was born, feeling anger now and rage. Those eyes, they fester on in March’s blatant heat. San Andrés of Black & Coal my patron since, interceding when I secede.

Dad is driving back, Mum and baby falling asleep. My brother and I, we believe. We really do. We ride in the back again. Dark approaches, and the sea waves goodbye to us infinitely from behind. We wave too. Baby is asleep; maybe so is mum. It was moving to let go, moving indeed.

It was a curious sea, a mysterious one at that; one which would part itself in some distant future for those of us, there that day. It was an endless sea and yet, not endless enough to deter the illusions it had bestowed upon us: of sunken treasure, and the odd mythical monster whose fin I was certain I saw.

We waved goodbye to Platero too, though he had stayed back. Actually, Platero died that day, and his resurrected carcass came to dwell in our midst in the confines of a photograph dark and in sepia, and ever ready to emerge when called upon in the drawing books and stories for the children of old.

But here, such pages end—though they will never be corroded away by time, nor moth, nor sea-spray nor sun. Here they perpetuate his memory like purgatory burning away his eyes into mine. It keeps me purified or tarnished enough to hope and dream that those days would one day be so, again.

The road is winding up. It is at an end. We are home.

Santa Monica, pray for us.

C. Alberto