My grandmother knit the ocean.Up all night with bargain-basement yarn, she watched old nature shows and knitted fish. Silver fish, red fish, pink-and-orange-polka-dot-vodka fish. She finished each with a knot and prayer-spit and set it out to sea—which was her room in my mother’s house, painted blue. She knit fish like it was her job…
The Second Wavewas imminent, I knew, just a matter of trepid hours and speculationto live for. And then I too would end on the seabed with no company;or drown in this hospital bed. No use breaking windows to run farther onto land when the hotelcollapsed like a house of matchsticks. My fever kicked and kicked….
I leaned over the railing, watching dark water thrash below. Evening light refracted off the lighthouse’s windows behind me and gilded the waves. Without warning, Viola appeared at my elbow. I knew who it was, but in the space between knowing and understanding, I jumped. She grinned at me. “Good instincts, Francis. You’ve got to…
Ocean Culture Life (OCL) is dedicated to empowering a global community of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians to inspire, educate, and protect marine ecosystems. Aligned with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goal 14, their initiatives promote conservation and deepen public engagement with the ocean. Since becoming a registered charity in Jersey, the Channel Islands, in December 2022, OCL has hosted vibrant World Oceans Day celebrations and immersive educational workshops, fostering ocean literacy and collaboration with marine organizations. OCL also gives out over 30 storytelling grants a year, directly funding and supporting their storytelling community. By celebrating the ocean through the power of storytelling, OCL inspires a new generation of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians committed to preserving our coastal environments for future generations.
Jet-black ink engulfs the emerald and marigold amphitheater as a young male Giant Cuttlefish flees, his bruised and scarred arms a testament to the battles fought for the survival of his kind. Gliding over the reef, he wears these wounds like badges of courage, marks of the relentless competition he faces to secure his legacy.
As the morning’s golden rays dance upon the frigid waters of South Australia, this underwater world stirs awake to a new day of battles, courtship, love, and heartbreak. Descending into this realm teeming with alien-like creatures, a drama as old as time, pulsing with the ocean’s heartbeat, the relentless struggle for love.
This seasonal fighter glides effortlessly over the reef, yesterday’s battles fading like a distant memory. Today brings new hopes as he stirs with quiet resolve, stretching his tentacles wide as dawn breaks through the water. Like a painter’s brushstroke on an ocean canvas, his body shimmers with purpose, pulsating in a hypnotic dance of blues, greens, and purples. He blends into his surroundings, shape-shifting with ease, his keen eyes sweeping for potential suitors. With each pulse and ripple, he prepares to captivate, conquer, and perhaps, finally meet her.
From above, a spotlight shines down on the reef, and nestled beneath the seaweed lies the female. Perfectly camouflaged in golden hues, she hovers silently, patiently waiting for him. Her beauty is unlike any other. Yet her allure has not gone unnoticed. She is surrounded by determined admirers, one, two, three… he loses count as she becomes engulfed by a kaleidoscope of pulsating colors. The heart knows what it wants, let the battle of the colors begin!
With purpose, he moves in, fixating on his beloved; the stage is set for an elaborate shape-shifting show. The largest admirer, looming like a spaceship above him, bellows a challenge, ready for battle. Like a well-rehearsed performance, these males adorn themselves in vibrant, elaborate costumes, each putting on the show of their lives and perhaps their last. The fight begins with a hypnotic dance; they whirl around each other, flaunting and stretching
their bodies to amplify their dominance and power in the water. He has waited too long to find her; this is a fight he cannot afford to lose. As the spectacle escalates, their bodies pulsate with mesmerizing swirls of white and orange, each determined to hypnotize, control, and ultimately win her.
His eyes dilate, intoxicated by love; he is transported into a trance. For a moment, he leaves his body, observing the battle from above, powerless in the face of defeat. Blinded by passion, he doesn’t see the larger male strike, driving a sharp blade into his vibrant armor. Abruptly, he awakens from his spell. With a heavy heart, he falters under the weight of his wounds. Retreating to the safety of the seaweed, he watches his love from afar. Yet, the call of love propels him forward. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in cunning; why fight when you can outsmart?
She locks eyes with him, trapped beneath a sea of unwanted males, her gaze silently beckoning him closer. It’s not size she desires, but intelligence, and he knows exactly what to do. With calculated precision, he employs a clever strategy, slipping in undetected as he masquerades as a female, altering his colorful armor and retracting his tentacles. Like a shadow, he glides beneath the larger males, evading their notice until he finally reaches her side.
Gently, he extends one of his arms to touch her, and her eyes speak a thousand words of passion. Their arms intertwine, head to head, heart to heart, an embrace that signifies the beginning of new life and the survival of their species. In this moment, the chaotic world around them fades away; all that exists is the delicate bond between two Giant Cuttlefish and the promise of their shared legacy, where intelligence wins.
I have learned a lot since first landing in Indonesia six years ago. I’ve learned how to ask for a nasi goreng in Bahasa, how to navigate down a dusty hill on a motorbike with a passenger and two surfboards, and how to tell if the tide will be too low to surf. However, something I took for granted was already knowing how to swim. I barely even remember learning! My faintest memory of learning how to swim, was being told to act like a starfish while attempting to float—at the tender age of five years old. This experience was something I took for granted—until I moved to Indonesia.
Despite spending almost every day in the water, I can count on one hand the number of local women I had seen surfing. Now living in Indonesia part-time and surfing almost daily, I continued to wonder about this. Were local women interested in surfing but just not participating? Or was I projecting my own “western” assumptions onto a community that might not share the same interest in the ocean?
I decided to find out the answer. I turned to Misel, a close local friend of mine. She managed one of my favorite local restaurants in town and we had gotten to know each other drinking many coffees over the years. When I asked her if she was interested in something like surfing, her eyes immediately lit up and she said, “Surfing?! That is my dream. Of course I want to surf.” At least for Misel, it was not a question of having interest.
When I probed her further and asked whether other local women felt the same way, she added exuberantly, “Many of my friends would love to surf! That is something we have only dreamt of doing!” Interesting, I thought, “So why have you not taken the leap to learn?” Misel laughed and said, “Well first we would have to learn how to swim!” This is where I had to check my privilege. I had assumed most of these women had grown up swimming since they lived on an island.
What I later realized, is that despite being in their mid-thirties and growing up in sight of the water their whole lives, many of the local women had never even been in the ocean past their knees. This was due to a myriad of reasons, from a general lack of time due to childcare responsibilities, local folklore stigmatizing the ocean as evil, and parents instilling fear in their young daughters in order to protect them. While this fear worked to keep women away from the ocean, it worked against their favor in dire situations.
Drowning is the third leading cause of unintentional injury death in the world, and one of the leading causes of accidental death in Indonesia. Children are especially at risk, since women, who are the primary caregivers to their families, are unable to swim and save those that have been swept away by currents or rogue waves.
This is where the idea for OceanFolx began. In partnership with Misel and a few other local femme leaders in the community, we spent the next year building and starting a swimming, ocean safety, and surfing program. We aim to prevent drowning through a ripple effect. We empower local women by teaching them essential swimming skills, ocean safety, and life-saving techniques. For those who want to go further, we have started an introductory surf program once they’ve mastered adequate swimming and water safety skills. Our program goes beyond basic training by including a leadership component, which equips these women with the tools and confidence to pass these skills on to their children, families, and communities. This approach not only amplifies their impact but also fosters a broader culture of safety and knowledge.
Through our initiative, we empower women, inspire local leadership, and promote environmental stewardship. By encouraging more time spent in and around the ocean, we help transform their relationship with the environment from one of fear to one of positive engagement and respect. Our program brings women together, creating a supportive community where they can empower each other and interact with the ocean in a safe and meaningful way.
In 2025, we will be running our second year of programming. Misel has come a long way and is now working as our local program coordinator. She recruits new students to our non-profit program and is working to become a swim teacher with us. We are committed to empowering more women through our comprehensive swim training program, guiding them all the way to becoming certified swim teachers. Our vision extends beyond our current reach; we aspire to expand our impact by introducing our programs to the neighboring island of Sumbawa and by launching exciting, new at-sea sailing programs. By donating, you can help us provide life-changing opportunities and build a brighter future for the women in our community.
Throughout this journey, I continue to be humbled and inspired every day by Misel and each and every one of our students. It has been incredibly rewarding to share my knowledge and watch our local women step up as leaders, ready to become the next OceanFolx teachers as I transition into a supportive role. Watching them float and telling each other to act like a “bintang-laut,” starfish in Bahasa, brings the biggest smile to my face—and all the hard work feels worth it.
Does the darkness hold light in abeyance?
How waves pulse between blurred edges defy.
Emboldened by revealing raw moments,
Glisten as we listen to the sky.
Our gazing is a tether in vast spaces,
Radiate a secret silent knowing,
As reflections on rippling places,
That the sea inside ourselves is showing.
Waters linger in a lonely abyss,
In the dark depths we share suffused longing
for our promised presence of Neptune’s bliss.
In remembrance of Day’s vanishing
the Night has taken form from holding breath,
That Life is a reckoning with Death.
The sea inside ourselves is knowing.
The sea inside ourselves is showing.
The Mediterranean Sea, with its startlingly blue depths and storied coastline, has a unique claim on my heart. As a child, I spent endless summer days diving into these fabled waters, searching for ancient treasures that seemed to whisper through the currents. My quarry wasn’t only shells and smooth stones; I was entranced by the seagrass meadows and the centuries-old amphoras hidden beneath the waves. Each dive was an act of discovery, a glimpse into the world of sailors and merchants from millennia past. I learned early on that the Mediterranean was no mere sea, but a bridge between human history and the wild mystery of the ocean.
From my very first encounter with those seagrass meadows—fields of Posidonia stretching across the seafloor like vast, verdant carpets—I was struck by the way these delicate green strands seemed to breathe life into the water. Posidonia meadows are among the most productive ecosystems on Earth, sequestering carbon, nurturing young marine life, and filtering water. These fields of seagrass became sacred places for me, sites of personal pilgrimage and discovery. They felt as much a part of Greek mythology as the stories of Odysseus and the sea gods.
Diving down after hearing my mother’s tales of the sea, I would imagine I was in the lair of Poseidon himself. The seagrass swayed like dancers in tune with his trident’s rhythms, and around me, I felt the presence of forgotten legends: ancient gods, sirens, and the creatures of maritime folklore. For thousands of years, the Mediterranean has held sway over human imagination. This was a sea that demanded respect, a wild place of tempestuous tides and lurking mysteries—a gateway between the known world and realms beyond.
The Mediterranean shaped me as a scientist, teaching me to observe, to ask questions, and to see the world as an intricate puzzle of ecosystems and cultural histories. It has shaped the way I approach conservation today— interdisciplinary, grounded in tradition yet open to innovation, and inclusive of multiple perspectives. As someone who grew up between cultures, I found that the Mediterranean offered a unique bridge between worlds: East and West, ancient and modern, wild and human. Its diversity, both ecological and cultural, reflects how deeply connected the ocean is to human identity. This sea instilled in me the importance of understanding not just the science of ecosystems, but the people, practices, and stories intertwined with them.
In many ways, the Mediterranean sharks I now study serve as symbols of this delicate balance between the wild and the human. Ancient Greeks feared and revered these apex predators, folding them into myths and maritime tales, from the great white to the angelshark. Yet today, many of the sharks of the Mediterranean are critically endangered, their numbers dwindling to a fraction of what they once were. Driven by overfishing, habitat loss, and the pressures of a warming sea, the decline of Mediterranean sharks is a devastating loss—not only of biodiversity but of living history. We are watching the unraveling of a story that has been unfolding for millions of years, and with it, a part of our collective human heritage.
Today, however, the Mediterranean is also a frontline for climate change. Rising sea temperatures, invasive species, and acidification are reshaping the delicate balance that has persisted here for thousands of years. The Mediterranean is warming 20% faster than the global average, putting ancient Posidonia meadows, the lungs of the sea, under grave threat. For those of us who see the Mediterranean as both a living ecosystem and a cultural cornerstone, the stakes are heartbreaking. It has always been a body of water that mirrored the ebbs and flows of human civilization, from trade routes to warfare, and now it has become an early warning system for the entire planet.
The changes sweeping through the Mediterranean Sea are not isolated—they’re ripples, harbingers of transformations reaching far beyond its shores. Invasive species from warmer waters have already begun to push out native species, with entire food webs restructured in ways we are only beginning to understand. For me, the Mediterranean’s transformations have always felt deeply personal, as though the very threads of my own connection to this sea are fraying, one species or seagrass meadow at a time.
As the Mediterranean changes, so do the traditional ways of life it has supported for centuries. Artisanal fishers, once in harmony with the seasons and the migrations of fish, now grapple with empty nets and foreign species disrupting their catch. The loss of biodiversity is not just about numbers; it is the erosion of a relationship, a rhythm of life that has evolved over thousands of years. We are losing not only wildlife but our traditional ways of being, our connection to place and to the ancient wisdom of those who lived in harmony with the sea long before us.
In global conversations about ocean conservation, the Mediterranean often finds itself overlooked. Perhaps it is due to its proximity to bustling civilizations, or maybe it’s because its compact size contrasts with the vastness of the Pacific or the Atlantic. Yet the Mediterranean remains one of the most biodiverse seas in the world. Here, species adapted to the rugged conditions of a semi-enclosed sea flourish, from seahorses hiding in meadows to groupers and tuna patrolling rocky reefs. This sea has borne witness to everything from massive migrations of bluefin tuna to the tiny nudibranchs that cloak its rocky shores in vibrant hues. The Mediterranean has long been a paradox: a relatively small, seemingly tame sea, yet brimming with an almost mythical intensity.
The Mediterranean taught me to look at the ocean as a tapestry, woven of both natural and cultural threads. As an interdisciplinary scientist, I now work to bridge the gap between these worlds, to merge science with storytelling and tradition with technology. The Mediterranean’s deep past, where sharks swam freely, where seagrass meadows grew untouched, continues to guide me as I navigate today’s conservation challenges across cultures and disciplines. This sea, this teacher, is not just a reminder of the beauty we stand to lose but of the resilience we can find—if we learn to listen to the stories that have always flowed through its waters.
The Mediterranean’s history is written not only into the marble walls of temples, or into folklore, but into its ecosystems, from the green seagrass meadows to the large whales. We are at a crossroads, and over the next decade we must decide what we want the Mediterranean’s story to become. This body of water has been humanity’s compass for thousands of years; by protecting its biodiversity, we are also protecting the cultures that call it home. In saving the Mediterranean, we are saving a piece of ourselves—our history, our future, and our enduring connection to the ocean.
Article OneFrom the private journal of Samuel Arden, PhD. 7/11/2027It’s good to be back! That proverbial saddle was warm and waiting for me. Today was our first explorative journey into the region of the Tonga Trench where those ridiculous anomalous readings originated from. Marissa and I set out from Tongatapu on the EV Nereid before…
threnody, adrifther sister’s name was Melody because—blonde, beautiful, sweet as maple sap straight from the weeping bark— their parents knew she was siren-bound. threnody, though: bony, stringy, quiet as owls on the hunt could only ever be a ghost Melody sang threnody wept Melody keened threnody screamed Melody walked into the surf & threnody watched…
As Nine stumbled with his words, a stifling heat rose beneath his cloak. Sweat beaded at the too-tight collar. He struggled to mirror the council-person’s rigid posture. She alone could invite him to stay at The Radiant Sun, offering them the home that would put an end to his days crossing the flood and a…
Excerpted and adapted from Deep Water: The World in the Ocean by James Bradley. Copyright © 2024 by James Bradley. Reprinted by permission of HarperOne (an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers), Scribe UK, and Penguin Random House Australia.On a gloomy winter afternoon, I step off the back of a boat moored near the outer edge of…
Nico doesn’t know that Daddy’s dead, only that he’s been gone a lot longer than he should have been. Mama says maybe the boat found more scallops than there normally are this early in the season, and maybe he decided to see how many he could catch in one go. But Daddy’s never fished more than two weeks at a time, and tomorrow morning makes three since he left. I know he’s gone for good this time, but I don’t say this to my brother.
Nico runs down the beach in nothing but his swim trunks, wire bucket in his hand. It’s October and the water’s barely warm enough for swimming, but Mama asked me to get some quahogs today since the weather’s so nice. They bury down deep in the sand, and you have to get out past your waist to find the big-bellied ones, but I hate the feeling of eelgrass on my feet, so I told Nico he had to do it. I say it’s a game and that if he fills the peck basket in under an hour then I’ll make us hot dogs for dinner. They’re his favorite.
Mama’s been working overnight shifts at the diner this week, on account of Daddy’s trip being prolonged. That’s what she calls it, prolonged. She says it’s running longer than it should but it’ll be over soon, that he can’t call to say goodnight since he’s working hard to find fish like most of the other dads on our island. Thing is, most of those dads have already come in and gone back, unloading their catch and spending a night at home like our own father was supposed to. I know Mama’s worried ’cause she’s been talking in her sleep again. Real words but also sounds like she’s crying and doesn’t want anyone to hear. I stay quiet when I do, until the house is still and the only sound is my brother breathing in the bed next to mine. He sleeps through everything, which makes it easy to protect him.
“I found three, Mari!” Nico yells from the water. Daddy always goes quahogging when he’s home, so I think he’d be okay with me making Nico do it now. I give him two thumbs up and watch the horizon, looking for boats coming back from the edge of the world. I stay still and wait for something to change, but the wind is steady from the southwest and I get itchy from the spray. I decide to walk down toward the end of North Cove, knowing Nico will be fine without me for a few minutes.
The beach is lined with new houses, the kind owned by people who live in Boston and only come for a few weeks in the summer.
Skukes, we call them behind their backs. Each June they come down in droves and pluck shells and sea glass from the surf, burn midnight bonfires. They shop at the outlet mall; they don’t go to church on Sundays. I remember when I was little and there were only a few of these houses lining the shore, and now there’s so many that they look like a wall—long and high. I’ve made friends with a few of the kids, but they’ve never asked me up to see the inside. They make me feel like I don’t belong when really it’s the other way around. Mama says the houses are up on posts so that the hurricanes don’t wash them away; Daddy says it’s because the people that own them think they’re above us; I think they’re both right.
The wind’s picking up and I untie Mama’s pink sweatshirt from around my waist as I turn back. It’s the one Daddy bought her when we went to Cuttyhunk last spring. It smells like her perfume, all powdery and clean, and I lift the edge of one sleeve to my nose so I can find her better. Mama says that even when you don’t have nice things, you should still try to make it look like you do. That’s why she always wears perfume, even when it’s Saturday and she’s gutting bluefish for dinner. I breathe her in and walk back. Nico’s tugging the basket behind him as he comes up the beach and I see it’s already full. He’s beaming sunshine from the round spots on his cheeks. “Make my hotdog with relish, Mari,” he shivers, and I smile because Daddy always asks Mama to do that for him. I throw a towel over him and he laughs light and quick, the quickest glimpse of our father.
“It’s really okay that we’re eating meat on a Friday?” he asks.
“I don’t think Jesus’ll mind.”
“Mama would.”
“She said it was fine,” I lie. “C’mon, storm’s coming.”
Nico runs ahead of me and beats his bare chest, yelling like he’s king of the beach. I carry the peck basket and sort through the batch; I didn’t check it before we left, and we’ll have to throw some back since they’re too small. I toss a handful out into the surf and remember Daddy saying you have to be honest when you fish so that there’s always something for everyone. I want to believe he’s still out there even more than I want Mama to tell Nico the truth that he’s not.
“Mari!” he yells, his voice stolen by the wind. He’s kneeling in the sand next to a brown cardboard box and waving at me to come toward him. We can never come to the beach without him finding something to take home, and I hope that this time whatever’s in the box isn’t garbage. People throw things out of their cars when they’re driving over the causeway, things they don’t want or don’t want others to find, and the ocean takes them away. Tires, empty gas cans, old soda cans—you name it, it’s there. One time I found a needle like the ones the doctor uses to give us shots, and Mama said no more picking things up unless she was with us.
I touch my brother’s shoulder and look inside the box.
“Bunnies,” he says, and I count their small bodies. Twelve in all, huffing and heaving against each other as if they might blow down the box and scatter. “Where’d they come from?”
I want to tell him that someone didn’t want them, that they’re too small and birds will eat them since they don’t have their own mama to protect them, not like we do. “I don’t know,” I tell him, just because it’s easier and he won’t fight it.
Nico picks one up and holds it near his face. The rabbit stays still with its eyes shut, but I can see it tremble. Nico makes his own eyes big and looks me square. “Can we keep it?”
I know we can’t, that there’s hardly enough food for us as it is. It’s why Mama sent us out clamming today.
“What would it eat?” I ask.
“Milk,” he says. “And grass and lettuce when he’s bigger.”
“And then what? Where’s it gonna sleep? What’s it gonna do when you go to school? Prince will eat it in one bite, first chance he gets.”
“No, he won’t!” Nico cries, hugging the rabbit into the hollow of his neck. Its ears stick out and wiggle in the air. There’s goosebumps on my brother’s arms and now he keeps his eyes closed tight. Mama would say no; Daddy would say maybe.
I shiver and grasp the sleeve of Mama’s sweatshirt, then take it off and wrap it around his shoulders.
“Put it inside,” I tell him. “In the front pocket, so it doesn’t get squished when you walk.”
“What about the others?”
“What about them, Nico?” I do my best to hold a stiff face like Mama does when I bring home bad grades. Nico pouts his bottom lip but doesn’t say anything, and we walk on.
We’ve lived on West Island since before I was born, in the house where my Daddy was once little. It’s got a porch in front and an orange buoy swing in the backyard, near the vegetable patch where we bury our old dogs. We raise Newfoundlands and Mama names each one Prince, so that when one’s gone we always have another. Prince the Fourth is our dog now and he’s waiting under the porch with his tail wagging.
“You stay away from that dog or we’ll have rabbit soup for dinner,” I tell Nico and hand the peck basket to him. I don’t think Prince will actually eat the rabbit, but I don’t want Nico to know that. “And put the quahogs in the sink so Mama can clean them tomorrow. Do you want carrots or potatoes with dinner?”
“Both.”
“One.”
“C’mon, Mari!” he whines.
I wait. He knows Mama’s rule: only one vegetable at a time so the others can keep growing.
“Carrots,” he says, and stomps up the stairs so hard he startles Prince out from his hiding spot. I pat him on his head, and he crawls back under the porch, waiting in the dark for his dinner.
Inside I hear Nico in his room talking to the rabbit, and I’m grateful he’s not whining at me to sneak some cartoons. Mama has a lot of rules, and it’s my job to make sure we mostly follow them when she’s not here. No TV, unless it’s the weekend. I’m the only one allowed to use the stove since Nico tried to make grilled cheese once and scorched the wallpaper when he forgot to flip the bread. We have to do our homework before we can play outside, there’s no whining about going to church, and we have to rinse our feet off at night when we’ve been at the beach so the sheets don’t get sandy. Since Daddy’s been gone there’s been a whole bunch more rules, like no answering the phone and no TV or radio when Mama’s not there. I know that’s because they’re talking about the boat, about Daddy and the crew and how no one knows where they are.
Mama’s even been hiding the newspapers, but I found one yesterday under the porch and it said they’re gonna call off the search soon if nothing changes.
I make Nico copper pennies with maple syrup and save the carrot peelings for Prince; I’ll let him come inside after we eat, even though Daddy says the dog makes the house smell like feet and Mama gets mad when Prince’s hair sticks to the old green couch. I put water on to boil and turn to the clams, which sit in the sink like a pile of rocks. You have to fill the sink with cold water and leave them in there for a long time so they spit out all the sand and dirt, or else when you eat ’em later you’ll taste grit. I think about how long it takes for them to get clean and wonder if that’s what Daddy’s doing down in the water, spitting out the stuff that doesn’t belong before he goes up to Heaven.
“Mari, the pot’s boiling.”
Nico’s wearing pajamas with ducks on the front. He’s holding the baby bunny, who’s wrapped in a towel. Its eyes are open now and they’re shiny like marbles, two little orbs taking in this strange new world.
“I know,” I say and turn the knob down. “How many hot dogs do you want?”
“Can I have two?”
“You can have three.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m still full from lunch. You need to feed your rabbit first, though.”
Nico scurries to the pantry and pulls down a nearly empty box of powdered milk, the one Mama wrapped in a plastic bag so no bugs get inside and have babies. But I know there’s bugs in there, and don’t rabbits eat them anyway? “Let’s finish the box,” I tell my brother, “and we’ll get a new one at the store tomorrow before Mama comes home.” Nico nods and pours the powder into a cup. I spoon hot water on top and mix it, and soon we’re dipping our fingers and the rabbit’s sucking down droplets from our pinkies.
“She likes it,” Nico smiles.
“I thought you said it was a he.”
“It’s a she. Amelia.”
“You named it?”
“So?”
I place the hot dogs into the simmering pot. I know this means we can’t get rid of the rabbit now; it’s why we never name the chickens, so it’s not sad when we chop off their heads. Amelia licks Nico’s pinky and I hand him the cup of warm milk and tell him he needs to find a shoe box for her to sleep in. They go off in search of her new home, and I dish up supper for Prince. I chop the ends off the hot dogs since Nico won’t notice them gone, and scatter them around the slurry with the carrot peelings on top. I make Nico’s hot dogs with relish and put the copper pennies in a bowl, then yell to him that I’m gonna feed Prince and he should eat while it’s hot.
On the front steps, it’s nearly dark now and Prince gobbles his food down like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, when really it’s just been since last night and he’s gone longer in the past. I wrap my arms around him tight and listen to him breathe, calm and steady. This Prince is mine, and the next one will be Nico’s. I like how everything about this dog is dark except his tongue, how it sticks out like a little splash of pink paint that someone forgot to wipe up.
We sit on the steps until rain starts to fall and I stand and push Prince up to wait by the door. I like the way our house looks, lit up yellow from the inside with the black night around it. It’s always warm and safe, my favorite place in the whole world. Daddy was going to put a new roof on this year, “before the first snow,” he said. But now he’s not here and the shingles are peeling up in the wind, and I wonder how long it’ll take before we’re stepping around pots and pans in the living room to catch the rain leaking in.
Prince barks and the darkness comes back, and I let the light pull me inside. He shakes his back and sends water everywhere so the air smells like dirt and salt and musty fish, then he runs into the bedroom I share with Nico. I step softly down the hall so they won’t hear me, and I peek around the doorframe.
Nico is belly-down on the floor wearing his shiny Easter shoes, the box they came in now full of dish towels and brown fur. Prince looks up at me and I hold up my hand, telling him to stay where he is and willing him not to jump down and scare the rabbit. The last thing I need is to have a wild animal loose in the house.
In the kitchen, I drain the sink and move the quahogs; their water needs to be changed anyway. They sit on the counter with their feet poking out while I wash the dishes. It doesn’t make me feel better, not like I wish. I wish I could go to church now. I miss the candles and the incense, the way the light falls through the stained saint windows and lands on the choir while they sing “One Bread, One Body.” I want to kneel in the confessional booth and feel better like I do when I tell Father Murphy about sneaking candy after dinner or giving April Perry the middle finger on the bus. I want to tell him I’m lying for Mama, for Nico. Instead, I put the quahogs back in the sink with new water, turn out the light, and return to our room.
The light’s still on but Nico’s asleep on the floor, the shoebox cradled against his stomach. I take the blanket from his bed and tuck it around him like when we sleep on Daddy’s boat. He sighs and puckers his lips, same as he did when he was a baby. Amelia shuffles in her towels and looks at me through one eye. She is so calm, not like I thought a wild rabbit would be, so I put the lid on but leave it ajar. Prince digs on the carpet and I hear him turning ’round before he settles in to sleep next to my brother. We are all together in this room, safe and sound and home again. Outside, the rain hits the windows and the wind blows hard, and I fall asleep thinking about spring.
I wake to a thin light poking through the curtains, same as it does every morning. It’s chilly now, much more than yesterday, and the tip of my nose is numb. Prince thumps his tail and stares at me from the floor, where Nico’s spread out like a starfish with the covers kicked off. I get out of bed and cover him again, then I peek inside Amelia’s box. She is there, quiet as I left her, with that one eye still looking at me. Her nose twitches and makes me want to sneeze, and I put the lid back on. I feel warm like I do when Mama catches me in a lie. Mama will be angry when she sees, and I know I’ve made a mistake. I still need to get to the store before Mama comes home, so I bring the box to the kitchen and take a few dollars from my allowance jar and leave Nico a note that says I’ll be back in time to make waffles and please not to make them himself. Prince follows me to the front door. I grab Mama’s pink sweatshirt and put it on over my pajamas. I do not want to leave, but I know I have to.
Outside the morning is sharp and the puddles splash against my bare feet. I walk quickly toward the causeway, knowing I have to get rid of this rabbit. Mama never would have said yes in the first place, no matter how much Nico cried. She’s hard and soft at the same time, and I decide that I’ll get a candy bar at the store as a peace offering for Nico.
Prince stays at my side as we keep going toward the beach, toward the place where the sun sits low on the edge of the ocean. I wish it would go back down there and pull my Daddy up with it. I know that he’s down with the stones and sharks, looking up through the water like he’s looking at the sky. The sky above my head rolls thick with clouds crashing into each other, all gray and silver and blue. Prince runs toward the jetty and barks at cormorants that’ve taken over the osprey’s nest inside the channel marker. That’s how you know summer’s really over: the osprey stops crying and takes her babies south before the devil birds move in.
I pull Amelia out from Mama’s sweatshirt and hold her tight between my hands. I don’t want to love her, but I do. Especially the way the smallest bit of sunshine goes through the thin pink skin of her ears, like light coming through stained glass. I didn’t know I could love something so quickly, and I hope it will be just as easy to unlove her, to not hurt or wonder about what will happen to her. Her old box is up ahead, a few yards from where Nico left it, and I push away the thought of him waking up to find his rabbit gone. Amelia twitches and I kneel down to put her back where she came from, back where she belongs, so that she can be a worry for someone else instead of us.
Inside the box the other rabbits are still. They’re covered with wet sand and stray pieces of seaweed, and they don’t look up at me like they did yesterday. I touch one: it’s cold and limp and its chest stays still when I press on it with my thumb. Water comes out of its mouth. It doesn’t cough or tremble. It doesn’t do anything. The others are the same. I put Amelia in the front pocket of Mama’s sweatshirt and feel her move, clawing around with the dollar bills and settling. We stay still together while I decide what to do.
I do not know how to take care of this thing that needs so much taking care of. If I bring her back to our house and place her in the garden, a hawk will make quick work of her. If I leave her on the beach, she will be blown away with the gale. I can’t get to the animal shelter on foot either.
Prince lies down in the dune grass and whines as I drag the box down to the surf. I let the water wash over my knees, feel the sting on my cuts and scrapes, and imagine myself being made clean. I do not want anyone to find these dead rabbits—especially my brother—and the sea will swallow them like it swallowed up my Daddy. That’s what it does best: we sail its waters, we steal its fish, we pick its quahogs. But for everything we take from it, it takes from us tenfold. High tide is coming, and the current will pull the box out to the open sea and the other islands. It will sink somewhere in the between.
I pull Amelia from my pocket and she stirs, as if this were all a dream and she was deciding if she should wake up or roll over. I blink tears and one falls on her head. She barely even moves. There is no chance of hope for her here, so I place her inside the box with her brothers and sisters as though she were a Sunday offering and watch as she hunkers down between them. She fits there, and I close the top before pushing the box into the water.
I try to be gentle and let the water take her like Moses in the reeds. The box moves slowly at first, then all too quickly until suddenly it’s out of my reach before I can grab it back. I know Mama is lying to us about Daddy because it’s her job, because it’s what she has to do as our mother. The box sinks lower and joins the horizon, the same as my Daddy did when he went off on his last trip and we didn’t know he wasn’t coming back. Now Mama and I both have secrets to keep from Nico.
I stand in the water and the eelgrass licks my toes, and I think about my brother asleep at home, how soon he’ll wake up when the gray light turns gold and realizes his rabbit’s gone. He will scream and howl, and it will be my fault. He will forgive me, I tell myself. Someday. I try to think of happy things as I call out to Prince and trudge toward the road. I lift the sleeve of Mama’s sweatshirt to my nose. I think about her and the neon lights of the diner, the way they catch on her teeth as she smiles when she sees us coming in the front door, how they make the darkness under her eyes look deep like still water.
Mama’s the kind of person who pushes her shopping cart all the way back to the grocery store when we go shopping. She gives money to the Boy Scouts when they fundraise outside the library. When I get mad and yell at her, she yells back but always tells me she loves me. When we fight, she makes me go to my room and then brings me warm milk. We kiss and make up. She puts notes in my lunchbox, goes to all of Nico’s football games, and lets Prince lick the bottom of the peanut butter jar. She always kisses Daddy no matter how awful he smells. Always. My mother is good, right down to her core, even when she doesn’t seem like it, and I hope one day I’ll be good like her too.
It’s not that we didn’t know. Your name, after all,
was the Ghost Ship, some kind of omen for what you’d become.
Ferrying somebody’s sister, somebody’s body, some bodies
across that fiery water: elsewhere. I don’t believe
in elsewhere, an eternity of fire or sun. You were mannequin arms
and a rug on a dance floor. Some kind of baroque, you
were built of pallets and tar paper, old couches, and terrycloth.
Everything that burns. You were art, and art is always worth burning.
I don’t believe in fate. I believe in grief, what it does to us.
Somewhere, somebody said: intergenerational trauma.
This isn’t my grief, not mine to carry, a chalky
fire-crisped piano, the twanging sound of each string popped
by heat. Everything can be a performance. The hand-
lebars of a ’65 Panhead. Your dark mustache
and aviator shades. You didn’t die in this fire’s crush:
a dream filled with opulence and hope.
Rents so high twenty-two people live and build
where they build beauty, too. This wasn’t how we lost you—
timbers crashed in char and singe, staircase crumbled
in smoky crush—
The things we love to blame, the things we love
end us. One fire or another, inheritance
of doors burned shut. I think of you with no escape
I think of you how could I not
my first ghost I wish I could
sail back to you I wish I could remember
[The italicized line “a dream filled with opulence and hope” is taken from Ghost Ship
founder and master tenant Derick Ion Almena’s Facebook post the day after the fire.]They say it comes in waves, grief, like the swell’s crush against your small board in the ocean, you learning to surf on such a vast sea, learning like the boy so proud at the front of the class Coach quizzing him, the boy pointing at his own body, moving tibialis, gastrocnemius, latissimus dorsi, the whole body hurts, doesn’t it, after a day of surfing muscles you didn’t know you had muscles writing the next day, sore, the neck turning to watch for coming swells, for what you know will come, what you wait for, can’t avoid, pointing here, here, trapezius, pectoral, the pull of your body and the hard board pushing back out against the waves coming and coming barely any relief in between.
She builds a causeway of her own skin : a road to the sea
She is all water hard-shelled crab, heart of fish, hidden sting
of extinct scorpion
Her bruised nape, sore hip, skewed scapula the intoxicating smell
of white flower oil and human touch
She is looking for a way back to herself : people, flesh, bone, spirit
Can she call their names with her seaweed mouth?
She floats between meditation and sleep, body hovering like a frond blown onto calm seas
She is mathematics and perfect form : parabolic sand dune, eyelashes of grass,
fingernails the empty shells of mollusks
Can I lie in the sun on the shore of myself?
She built this landscape of what she loves
salt-licked and kelp-strewn : let me rest
Let the swell of the tide carry my love her loss out to the deep