Ten Thousand Days on Cayo Hueso
I had been paddling for at least two hours before I stopped. Two hours that seemed to last forever. In my head, ten thousand days unaccompanied at sea. Even on this calm afternoon the mouthwash-blue ocean wrestled my small boat on all sides. I set my tired oars beneath my feet and slowly let my lungs fill with salty air. I hadn’t brought anything with me, deliberately but regrettably. The sun pressed down on my shoulders, on my nose, on my too sensitive for it eyes.
For nearly seven months I had been living alone in that great big house; in that white-with-no-blinds, no color on the inside house. The clay cake roof and doors open to the wind kept me cool. I was protected me from the things I did not know. The day I moved in I became my own; with one pull unplugged the telephone. If they want to find me, they know where I am.
Each day, remnants from a garden filled my stomach and made me strong. The window from my bedroom was a shallow sea, clear. I could see to the end of the earth through that window, but it was just a window. A bed I hadn’t bought held my head at night and after a short while the bags under my eyes went away. The city put bags under my eyes, the house on Cayo Hueso took them back. Books with bent pages and underlined words were scattered through each room; don’t give me a bookshelf, stack them neatly on the floor. Toni Morrison in the kitchen, T.S. Eliot in the atrium. With nowhere to be and nothing in particular to learn, I’d drift from room to room reading what I chose. Home alone was the perfect home on most days and so it felt strange, the growing need to get away and not be by myself.
The small boat was in the garage, where I had not spent my time, where I did not much like to go. It must have been the unsettled feeling that brought me there, called my bored feet towards it. The awful dust that lived on the shelves and in every crevice made my nose itch and the unnecessary belongings I tripped over made me mad. Disjointed tennis rackets, trophies from another life, boxes of ceramic knick-knacks. All unnecessary. If it gathers dust, it doesn’t belong.
The old boat was covered with canvas cloth and wrapped in a history I would never know. It was nothing more than a map of grey chipped paint, a story of mishaps held together by fifty-year old wood. I found a rope and with my own two arms pulled it to the dock. The bottom scraped where it had not yet been scraped and I pushed it in the water.
The complete silence of the house haunted my head and my heart. Let me hear the waves beat the side of the wooden boat; let me hear the bird flying over my head.
Two hours out, I sat quietly unsure of what to do. Without my books and the company of chaos in my mind I didn’t know who to be. The ocean gently rocked the boat to and fro, reminding me it had not left me. It would not leave me. Carefully, I stood and peered toward the horizon. Covered my nose, water don’t come in. I dove in and swam deep, deep, deep. Coolness surrounded my body as I torpedoed to the bottom. Alone and free and completely myself. My eyes wandered the blue expanse, “I am who I am and that’s who I’ll be.” 1,2,3,4… seconds and I touched the floor. Porous rock and the gentle sandy surface moved against my palms. One by one I filled my not-big-enough hands with shells. Meticulously, methodically, quickly.
Running low on oxygen, I pushed back to the air and held my hands above my head. My untrained eyes surveyed what I had found- nothing rare or extraordinary. Nonetheless, I had found them. My shells. Shells for looking at, for putting on tables, for wearing around my neck. I knew I was the only one who had these shells.
Later, under the Mangrove trees I found rest. Ripe Tamarind came from a tree and made my mouth sweet, made me thankful to just pick it right off the branch like that. My toes moved through the sand and in an effortless dance disrupted the sea. A school of small fish came by and with one stomp I ruined their rhythm; was a sea monster for a moment. Was 10, 11, and 12 years old for just a few short seconds. I unearthed a cracked conch shell and held it to my ear. It didn’t sound like the ocean, was just an empty shell. With one toss it went back. Empty cracked shells go back to the ocean; it willingly holds all sorts of broken empty things. My dry skin told of the sea and salt. A story of a light-skinned girl who liked the sun more than she should was being told.
After a short while I ventured back to the mainland, knowing the ocean had not helped like it was supposed to, not like I had planned in my head. I was certain no longer that it was where I belonged. No, being alone was not where I belonged. The things I held- my books, my pride, my individualism- none of it had been enough. A slight sadness came over me; on my own would never be enough.
The quiet house welcomed me back, called out, made every effort to draw me to the comfortable place I knew so well. My chair on the back porch asked me to come sit and watch the sunset. This time I knew better. I picked my suitcase off the floor and gathered my belongings. Pulled the phone from the closet and called a friend. All this, because being alone for such a long time was not satisfying, was not good. I had a house all for myself, I did not share, had no need to share. Days spent for me and for no one else.
I had a boat and oars and tired arms from going at it all alone. Going at it all alone. All alone.
