How the Ocean Holds Me
AS I SLIPPED beneath the surface, the world above me faded, muffled by the water that welcomed me. The gentle waves rocked me back and forth, their rhythm steady and calming — a pulse beneath me that mirrored my heartbeat. Sunlight filtered through the water, casting golden beams that danced across my skin, illuminating the reef beneath me. I closed my eyes and let myself float effortlessly, weightless. With each slow inhale through my snorkel, I felt a deep sense of peace, as if the ocean itself was breathing alongside me. I opened my eyes and kicked gently, gliding forward with slow, deliberate movements. Below me, the reef stretched out like an intricate city, full of twisting coral structures and hidden crevices where parrotfish grazed and damselfish darted. A school of sergeant majors swam by, their black and yellow stripes flashing as they moved in perfect unison. I let myself sink slightly, feeling the weight of my body give way to the ocean’s gentle pull. I reached out, fingers grazing the water in front of me, wanting to get closer, to feel more, to absorb every detail. Remember this, I thought to myself. Remember how the ocean carries you, how the water hums softly in your ears, how the light flickers on the ocean floor. Hold onto this moment as if it were the last. Because part of me was afraid that it was. During a study abroad trip to the Caribbean to research coral reefs and ocean acidification, Sara Abraha finds herself blindsided by the emotional weight of seeing a reef that felt more like a memory than a living world.
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