Late June, 2021
Though the Spanish word for “ocean” is masculine, I argue she is feminine; consistent, persistent, resilient, pedagogic.
I’m thinking of this as we sit at the plastic foldout table of the beachside restaurant we’ve chosen to eat for lunch, one of just two at the Oaxacan Coast’s Playa Agua Blanca. In front of us sits a large family of thirteen; four young children, three men of at least of sixty, with their presumed three wives of the same age, and three middle-aged adults.
We just finished watching the three elder men nearly drown, trapped on the shoreside’s violently sharp rocks as the thick tide rapidly rolled in. The entire beach paused as the scene escalated; every man in the perimeter ran to help, our waiter rushing out with a life ring. Everyone’s eyes were glued and my blood cold.
Just ten minutes has passed, and Tennessee and I observe in awe as one of the three men approaches the exact ocean that almost swept him to death. His wrinkled, tanned, and freckled back is tattooed and my eyes glaze as it moves further from me.
“Mexicans, we’re not afraid.” Marina matter-of-factly shares. “He’s returning back to the ocean to prove that he can have a positive experience with it, otherwise, he’ll just be afraid for the rest of his life.”
