Facing the ocean's fury

A micro-essay on riding the waves of maternal anxiety.

An audio read-aloud of the essay:

Hello friends — Have you ever had one of those heart-stopping moments when you realized you or a loved one might be in mortal danger? And has it become one of those core memories you’ll never forget? This is an essay about one of mine.

My daughter, age nine, surrounded by sea foam at Padre Island. Credit: Me.

North Padre Island, Texas, 2022 — It is New Year’s Day, chilly and blustery, the kind of beach day bordering on miserable. I am ready to leave, to retreat to our ramshackle rental, but my daughter is immersed in another world, one in which she talks to the ocean and it responds. For her, I stay. We only ever have today, and if there is one thing I have learned in life, it’s that time at the beach with my girl is precious.

As I cup my face from the wind, she practices her version of gymnastics, letting the sand absorb her fall. After many failed cartwheels, she walks up to the first sandbar, kneels down, and talks to the ocean. Her hands gesture as if in deep conversation. When she is finally still, I take her photo. The swirling ocean sweeps past her and she jumps up, racing away, her heart perhaps as free as it ever will be. The moment is over so fast.

"Don't go too far!" I shout in my mom voice. Four years ago, I was swimming with her on a day like this—what the local surfers call a washing machine—when a wave toppled her over and sucked her under. For at least half a minute my heart stopped as adrenaline flooded my body. I could not see her bright watermelon-print swimming suit nor even a shadow of her tiny, five-year-old frame. Just as I was about to scream, she popped up, unharmed but scared. I grabbed her and we headed for shore.

"Can we go now?" she asked as we waded back. I held her close, trying not to cry.

“Of course.”

Once my heartbeat calmed, I worried she would forever fear the beach, or worse, recall this unsolicited submergence as her first memory. But my fear was unwarranted. A phobia of the ocean did not develop. By the time we visit again, a few months later, she has forgiven the ocean.

It is a calm day, the water green, the sea foam minimal. Together, we swim in the Gulf of Mexico with sea turtles, fish, and crabs. With people, trash, and heat. With love, anxiety, and hope.

This essay and photo was originally published in Sojournal: One Image, One Story, titled as A Gulf So Wide. (The journal is currently open to submissions.)

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An image from last week, same beach, same daughter, two years later. I’ll never not be afraid of her being toppled by waves, whether literal or metaphorical, but I’m learning to embrace her need to wade in all the same.

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