Records

Island life sinks its soft teeth into me. I begin to forget the everyday hustle, the gray cold, the beckonings of my growing inbox. Resting in a sun chair with the baby sleeping in my arms, I weave tales and write letters in my head, but come evening I am too tired and fall asleep without a single word on paper. 

We went to the little lagoon today, arrived early and fought only iguanas for our shady spot. While the others rested, I took the snorkeling gear and crept along the coraled walls of the bay. It always seemed so strange to me, to breathe underwater and immerse oneself in a whole other world. I hung silently with countless yards of open water below me, dangling my feet over my fear of heights and floating weightless. Tropical fish swayed with the rhythm of the waves, the rasping sounds of grazing parrotfish pecking at my attention. In front of me, a tiny purple squid lay waving  without moving, and I realized suddenly I was in the middle of the entire shoal. A mountain of overgrown concrete steps told stories of the past, but I had no history. Only the regular breathing through a tube to the surface, only the observation of a hundred animals I'd never known, only the impossibility of flying and a space that was all my own. 

My limbs are tired at night, but I dream such strange, involved dreams before sunrise. Rolling waves follow me into sleep.