Still Waters

“Stop looking at the sea or you’ll get dizzy,” my mother cautioned me for the third time, but my attention remained on the water.

It shone in the sunlight, and though the sea appeared to be whizzing past us, the boat gently swayed beneath my feet.

Inside, the engines growled within, but I could only hear the hiss of the waves on the hull. The air smelled of salt and freedom. The vast ocean, with its endless blue stretching farther than my eyes could reach, as the boat moved beneath me, I clenched my hands tightly, holding onto the seat, feeling as small as a grain of sand on the shore. Each rise and fall of the waves felt like a heartbeat.

The ocean appeared alive, and it was moving, breathing. It whispered words I couldn’t understand, yet somehow felt them brush against my skin.

Then I heard my mom’s voice again: “Stop looking at the sea or you’ll get dizzy.” That’s when I realized that I’d been staring for over fifteen minutes.

The man in front of me clenched his chest and trembled. A shiver struck my stomach–the very same fearful uncertainty that had taken hold of me when I gazed at the waves five years ago.

I looked back. Amaya Island, the place where I had grown up, receded further with every beat of my heart. The shoreline blurred, and the palm trees dwindled into the distance until they looked like brushstrokes on the horizon. I turned one more time to take in the sight. Sunlight danced upon the water, each wave catching a flush of gold like discarded coins. I breathed in sharply, the air tasting of salt and memory. The sight took my breath away again — the same magic that once filled my childhood afternoons, when the sea breeze smelled of jasmine and home.

Five years had passed since we’d left. Five years in a place that still wasn’t home, where the air was heavy with exhaust instead of salt, where the sky stayed gray and the streets never became still. We had come back to visit relatives, to see what pieces of our old life remained amidst the ruins of time. But as the boat carried us farther, I realized temporary returns only deepen the ache of permanent absence–like reopening a wound that had only just started healing.

“Hey..hey…heyy!” the children cried, their voices blowing in the wind.

“Aren’t you going to the sea to swim?” one of them asked.

“No way, I’m okay! I’m making a sandcastle– I prefer sand better,” I replied quickly.

“She won’t be able to swim –she’s scared of the ocean!” another teased.

“What? That’s such a ridiculous thing to be scared of!”

Their laughter echoed, mixed with the sound of the waves.

The beach was crowded. Kids younger than me danced in the sea, and my stomach knotted as I watched them splash, laughing at me. It was a family vacation — everyone was there. I nearly cried when my uncle picked me up in his arms, carrying me toward the water. My chest tightened as fear surged through me, and I clung to him, shaking, while the other kids laughed at my reaction. When he set me down near a small boat, its engine humming beneath us, I held him even tighter, hoping it would keep me from slipping into the sea.

That was the summer before everything changed. Before the earthquake and tsunami struck. Before many people, including my own family, suffered loss. Before jobs and homes vanished, and precious memories faded. Before, talk of leaving filled our conversations. Before everything was destroyed. That day at the beach, I was afraid of the ocean. I didn’t know yet what disasters it would bring later, but I also didn’t know how much I would miss it.

But that wasn’t the end of that day. After the boat ride–after my heart had finally stopped racing–we returned home.

The boat’s engine shifted to a low, rasping purr, and the rhythm of the waves changed. I realized we were halfway across — halfway between Amaya and the mainland. Halfway between home and not-home.

My mom sat beside me, silent. She’d been quiet for a long time, but unlike me, her gaze never strayed toward the ocean. She looked at the floor, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve, her thoughts hidden somewhere I couldn’t reach. The sunlight splayed across her face, and for a second, she looked both present and distant.

Around us, families filled the air with laughter. Children leaned over the railings, couples took pictures, and the hum of conversation drifted in the wind. But not everyone was smiling. I noticed the still ones, the ones looking back at the disappearing horizon. I recognize the same pain in their eyes, the way they clung to their bags as if letting go would mean losing more than belongings. Some didn’t want to leave either.

“Mom…” I began, my voice thick with the salty air. I didn’t know what to ask. Can we stay? Can we go back? The questions hung like the gulls above us — pointless and weightless. We both already knew the answers.

She reached over and took my hand, her grip firm but trembling just slightly. “I know, mija. I know.” Her thumb brushed the back of my hand, and her voice softened. “I also know how strong you are.”

I caught sight of my Dad in the distance, at the bow of the boat, his camera up, taking the horizon as if trying to freeze time.

Somehow, that was enough. And not enough at all.

It’s not that I’ve gotten over my fear of water — not really. After all, the ocean took away the precious memories it once gave me. I still can’t walk the beach alone. But I’ve learned to see it differently now. To see the sea not just as what it took, but for what it holds — laughter, sunlight, family, all the things that made home feel like home. Even if I never step into the waves again, I’ll keep watching them, remembering the pieces of my life they carry.

I didn’t notice when my fingers relaxed, letting go of the seat; beside me, the passenger finally stopped trembling.

The sun was lower now, painting the sky with gold and orange. The water reflected it, turning the waves into liquid fire. It reminded me of another evening, another sunset–the same day I'd held on to my uncle in terror, on a boat much smaller than this one.

We’d gone home as the sun set. Night fell softly and deeply. My dad held me in his arms, and the moonlight washed over us, casting a silver glow on my hair and shoulders. Clouds glowed gold, drifting slowly across the sky. and the stars scattered around like tiny sparks, blinking quietly as if sharing secrets.

The houses crouched on the sand, leaning slightly, fragile yet familiar, their outlines softened by the pale light. Tall trees stretched above me, branches reaching toward the sky as if trying to touch the moon.

The kids ran ahead, their laughter filling the air, jumping ropes snapping against the sand, marbles clinking in the hush. My grandmother sat nearby, retelling the same stories she had told countless times. But tonight, under the moon’s gaze, her words felt alive, sparkling in the shadows.

I pressed tight into my dad’s chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my chin. The ocean hummed in the distance, waves sweeping along the beach with soft, endless rhythm, carrying salt and cold night air. I hugged him tighter, letting the motion of the walk sway me like the boat had swayed earlier, letting the scents, sounds, and silver light wrap around me.

Moonlight turned the sand pale, the clouds molten gold, the shadows soft and endless. Everything seemed to hold its breath for a moment—the sea, the trees, the houses, even the children’s laughter. I could feel the stillness drawing quietly on me in my chest, stretching out in wonder, shivering as if the night itself was alive.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the beauty of it all flow into me—the glow of the moon, the whisper of the waves, the warmth of my dad’s arms, the stories flowing into the night. The world felt immense, fragile, and eternal all at once, and I wanted to hold onto it forever.

The boat’s horn split through the quiet, startling me back. I blinked hard, feeling the world tilt between past and present. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t tell — was I eight years old again, safe in my father’s arms beneath the silver moonlight, or fourteen now, sitting on a ferry that would be arriving in ten minutes?

Ten minutes. Ten minutes until the mainland rose before us. Ten minutes until Amaya Island disappeared, lost in fog and distance. Ten minutes before I was back to a life that still didn’t feel like mine — to the apartment that always felt too small, the city that spoke in screamed in a language I’d never learned, the school where I moved like a ghost down hallways that never learned my name.

I pushed myself up on shaky legs and walked toward the railing. Around me, passengers gathered their bags, the air buzzing with the sounds of endings — zippers, chatter, children’s laughter fading under the hum of the engine. But I needed one more look.

The ocean was behind us, limitless and vast, its surface gleaming in what remained of daylight. It was hard to believe that something so breathtaking could also be so cruel — that the same water glimmering gold now had once risen in fury, taking lives, homes, and memories. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Amaya waited. The houses crouched on the sand, the tall trees reaching for the moon, Grandma’s stories spilling into the night air, the scent of salt mingled with jasmine. It was all still there, suspended in time — just without me.

“You ready?” Mom asked softly, coming beside me.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to say I’d never be ready. But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I looked at the water, the same water that took everything away from me, the water that I hated yet loved, the same water that had carried me away five years ago, the same water that was now carrying me away.

“Still waters run deep,” Grandma used to say. The ocean looked calm, but I knew what it was hiding: all the memories, all the losses, all the pieces of home I’d left behind, and every piece that I still carried around. I also knew it could come crashing out at any moment.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “I’m ready.”

It was a lie. But it was the lie I needed, for my mom, for myself, and for the ocean watching us leave.

The boat docked with a soft thud, the sound echoing like the closing of a door. I picked up my bag and followed Mom toward the exit. At the doorway, I turned back one last time.

The water shimmered in the fading light — deep purple and molten gold — beautiful, terrible, endless.

“Watch your step,” Mom whispered, and the crewman reached out a steady hand to assist me off the ramp.

“Goodbye,” I whispered. I didn’t whisper to the water, but to the precious memories it held, the good, the bad, the pieces that I knew I’d never get back.

And then I stepped off the boat, into my other

life — the one that would never quite feel like home, but was the only home I had left.