I woke up suddenly in an 8-seat passenger jet. The engines were humming loud, desperate dissonance. My chest was heavy and I felt wheezy. I watched the ocean below me because I had been told that sometimes people see schools of whales swim by. If it’s a particularly dark night, the water glows gentle neon blue when living things move inside of it. No one knows why.
Years later, my girlfriend and I were orientation leaders at a small, prestigious, coastal liberal arts college. The second day of school we kidnapped 3 sleeping freshman and drove them to the beach at 2 in the morning. The water was flat and calm. The sky was flat and calm. We all took off our clothes and stepped into the ocean. Our bodies were flat and calm. The same neon blue glowed brightly in small droplets on our slippery skin. My girlfriend kissed me softly and our lips lit up. They stayed that way for a few minutes once we were done swimming and faded as we dried in the moonlight. I wanted to glow like that forever, mostly so I’d feel electric and alive. I hadn’t in years.
On the airplane, I watched the sea, looking for a small pink swim-noodle. My grandfather had just disappeared while his whole family built sandcastles a handful of meters away from him. We realized he was gone by sundown. Drowned probably— he wasn’t all that fit anymore and his heart wasn’t good. My mom thought his mind was going too. I thought he was doing great for 75, but I guess I was wrong. My grandma paced the beach with a carton of orange juice. She was worried about his diabetes. My dad walked, waste deep and fully clothed, out into the ocean with a snorkeling mask until we couldn’t see him
anymore. I ran barefoot down the beach, cutting my feet on conch shells. My sister hid in the closet. She didn’t really understand what was going on.
By the time search planes got there, it was morning. We found his glasses, a book, a pair of sandals, and empty swimming-flipper tracks down to the water, but no grandfather. The diving equipment rental people charged us for the missing gear. My dad stayed behind when we flew home.
I remember my grandfather well. He, for a long time, was the reason I lived. We used to cruise around suburban New York State in the dead of winter, top down, heat on, no seatbelt. He used to buy me toys and then loose the parts when we tried to assemble them. He used to turn the heat up in the swimming pool so we could swim when it rained. I don’t remember the day he died well at all.
I had a panic attack while surfing by myself on a cold blue day in Miami, Florida. The lifeguards dragged me and my short board out of water so calm it looked like glass. I passed out on the beach.
This is my future. Next to me is a line of naked women. They are all pale. They are all twitching slightly, like eager children or uncomfortable teenagers, sort of vibrating like they are electronics that aren’t grounded quite right. They smell like tanning oil and lotion. None of them look at me at all, though I am making it pretty obvious that I am looking at them pretty hard. They are all beautiful and done up just right. Every one of them glows a soft white from within, bubbling with secret promise, smiling sweetly with every tick. At once, all of them pour cold water down their bodies in unison. A synchronized arm raise, the coordinated bend of every delicate wrist, a soft saliva smack as the water and skin connect. I look down as together they unfold their legs and realize that each of them has a snarling monster-mouth where they shouldn’t. The mouths are drinking of the water that has cascaded down naked flesh. The mouths seem very, very thirsty. I realize I am also thirsty, but the mouths are not inviting me to share a sip.
When I come to, I’m surrounded by lifeguards with bulging Speedoes and olive complexions. These are lifeguards whose damp biceps are peppered with sand, whose hair is going sun-bleached blond, and whose noses are white with sunscreen and zinc. I cough up cold, clear, fresh water, which smells like coconut oil and pineapple—definitely not from this ocean, I think. Every single one of them looks oddly like my grandfather when he was a young man. Every single one of them sounds like me. They all move like my father.
Back on the airplane, my head is pressed against the cold plastic window. I can feel the hum of the engine, I can feel the fabric seat through my jeans, and I can feel the weight of the air around me. No one is talking, or even (it seems) breathing. When we land in the Bahamas, it is grey and raining. When we land again, home in Miami, it is black and raining harder.
