I gazed out from the ferry, my eyes growing big as we neared the island. It shone like an emerald in the morning sunlight, green trees waving to me in greeting. I could not help but smile. What a wonderful way to spend our vacation—my first time seeing the ocean and we were going to be right in the middle of it! The ferry docked and my family and I disembarked, all four of us dressed in pastels and dragging bulging suitcases. From the moment I stepped onto the pier I was captivated by the regal splendor of the island. The beaches were carpeted with sand white as sugar and the ocean swelled in a blue rhythm. Clouds began to gather above the water, blocking out the sun every so often. It all seemed so wonderful to me. My family checked into the hotel and dropped off our luggage. The hotel was luxurious, with soft mattresses and royal crimson and gold decorating our rooms. My brother was completely enthralled by the satellite TV, but my favorite part of the room was the floor-to-ceiling window along the west wall. It overlooked the ocean and it thrilled me to think that I could watch the tides come in and go out. I stood by the window, watching the swells rise and sink, finally gaining enough momentum to rise high enough to touch the cloud-heavy sky and then cave in on themselves in a chaos of foam and saltwater. I was hypnotized by it, and as the cold blue caressed the white sand, it seemed to me that the ocean was breathing. In fact, I fancied I saw a figure in the waves as they collapsed into the surf, a figure dancing and moving to the ocean’s pulse . . . My first time seeingthe ocean and we were going to be right in the middle of it! “Shelia?” I jumped at my mom’s call and turned to look at her. The entire family was clustered around the door. “Well, are you coming with us for the tour or what?” “Yeah—I’m coming!” I said, jumping up to join them. My mother shook her head as we left the room, muttering, “I swear— sometimes you just get lost in your own head.” * * * “This—as you can all see, I’m sure—is the ocean:” The guide swept his hand across the horizon. We all nodded and smiled, adjusting our hats and sunglasses. My family was just a small part of a group of tourists standing on the pier, who came to see the famous Dancer Island. The air was filled with clicks and flashes of light as people took pictures of the setting sun. Not that it was easy to see the sun, with all the clouds. “Now,” said the tour guide, a man named Eddie in his early twenties, “does anyone know why this island is called Dancer Island?” Everyone shook their heads. My brother, recognizing the beginning of a story, groaned, but I leaned against the railing to get more comfortable. I loved stories and this sounded like an especially good one. “Hundreds of years ago there lived a woman here who danced to the ocean. It’s said that she could change the ocean’s mood—could tame it into a gentle babe or stir it up into a frenzy. She was called the Storm Dancer.” The Storm Dancer, I thought, visions of a beautiful woman dancing to the ocean, auburn hair caught up by the wind and eyes blue as the ocean playing through my mind. What a mysterious and exciting name! “The villagers living here at that time, though, were pretty superstitious. They called her a witch and sentenced her to death. Burned her at the stake.” The crowd around me gasped. What a terrible thing to do to a person! And all because of a little superstition! Eddie straightened his hat and continued. “That’s not all. After her death, this island had the worst hurricane it’s ever seen. Wiped out the entire population. Weren’t any people living here until about fifty years later, when someone came off the mainland to start a tourist spot here. And even after that, people say they’ve seen her dancing on the beach when there’s a storm—dancing to the beat of the ocean.” I was spellbound. I wondered if perhaps the dancer saw the ocean the way I did. I wondered if she felt its breathing and the swells seeming to rise and fall to the beat of her own heart just as I did . . . “Well, folks, you should be getting back to your hotels now—the weather changes fast around here. Looks like rain,” said Eddie and as he spoke a drop of rain fell. A light drizzle started, growing heavier with every second. “Come on!” I heard my father yell. “Let’s get back to the hotel—fast!” I nodded and began to walk toward the town, but it was raining much harder now. I couldn’t see anything in the rain—it was coming down in sheets. I felt for the railing, thinking it would lead me back to the town. The wood was slick and I had to inch my way along. Damp and cold, dripping wet, I found the end of the boardwalk. I took a step forward and slipped, tumbling down in the storm and rain. I landed in something gritty and soft. I opened my eyes and found somehow I had ended up on the beach. I sat up and found myself staring at the ocean—a raging, screaming ocean that lashed out at me. Its rhythm was no longer slow and steady but angry and unpredictable. Waves rose fierce and black, crashing down in a brawl with the wet sand. The spray hit me full in the face, and I gasped at the overwhelming saltwater. I cried out and pulled away from the water, trying to crawl away from it. But it followed me, shoving me underneath with damp fury
July/August 2005
I Am a Golden Trout
The sound of silence shatters When a buzzing fly splashes into a cool freshwater lake The water, like liquid tourmalines, ripples to kiss the sun-bleached shore I wait for a delicious, squishy fly to plop into striking range Anxious yet excited Each time is as thrilling as the first I strike like a ravenous eagle WHAM! I clamp the sweet, juicy fly between my jaws like a wrench GULP! What a luscious fly! I descend into the liquid silk water To snooze in my blanket of warm earthy mud Colin Johnson, 11Laguna Beach, California
The Sky, the Water, and the Shell
My damp hair lies strangled on my sweaty shoulders. The air around me covers every bit of me with heat, and continues to close in on me. My hair clings and knots on my swirly tie-dyed top. It swirls along with the oranges, reds and yellows. As we bounce up and down along the dusty gray, brown South African road, pictures of my father and sister far away bounce along with my stomach. Suddenly the car stops, my mind begins to swirl with thoughts: Did we break down? This can’t be good. My aunt’s smooth voice bounces out of the car with her tall dark body. The dust shines in her eyes. As she gleams in pleasure the wind pulls and pushes her, pulling her into its clutches, as if to smother her with a kiss. The dust is rising into the sky, swirling, taking away all hopes of being able to see. “Calm down, settle back into the ground, dust,” my mom whispers to me jokingly. And then, like it knows what she said, the dust gently floats to the ground. From the dust is rising a forest of cactus, rose hips and tiny shrubs. A chorus of sighs rises in the silence. I begin to talk but my mother hushes me. “This place is nothing like the hot busy streets of New York; enjoy it while you have it,” she says. The rose hips have tiny green stems protruding from big luscious fruits, each the size of a golf ball, the color of blood. I stick my nose out of the car and take a sniff. I smell something salty. Something not at all like the cruddy, cigarette-butt-covered sidewalks that I always used to wake up to. This something smells like something salty, but with the same sweetness as a newly unwrapped candy. My aunt says that it is the ocean and I think that it is the love that is in this place. We stand there against the wind, looking out onto the ocean before us. The wind dries up all the sandy sweat off our bodies, sweeping it off gently. A big gust of wind brings the gritty sand and harsh salt mist into our eyes, making them tear as we walk blinded into the sand. When the sand finally comes out of our eyes, gray seagulls hit and dive across the sky, chasing tiny bugs. Their young sit in their nests, cawing for their mother or taking their first flight. The shell seems magical, as it rests in my hand, sending waves through my body “Each tiny bird spreads its sticky wings and is gone, just like that,” my mother snaps, then stares into her hand as she slowly drops it into the sand. The sun is dipping into its blue blanket, and is making the sky into a fuchsia blob. “An ocean is a mural, of a part of a big idea, the beginning of a memory” My father used to say things like that. “Life is a canvas that goes on forever right above the water and anything can be painted on it,” and I would roll my eyes and walk away. But now I know what he meant, and I can see the paintbrush painting. I stand in the sand, my feet slowly sinking, my mind racing with memories, then like a bullet I run splashing into the white foam, my toes numbed. Then I run crashing out of the waves and rush into my mother’s arms, burying my face in her shoulder, my knees wobbling and my feet blue. I lift my head to her ear and whisper that the water has frozen icicles in my brain. She laughs and blows in my ear. “I am all better now,” I say. “Good,” she says and we talk and giggle until I know she’s still a kid inside. We stand there for a second under our fuchsia sky, as pale blue clouds lazily roll through the sky, and my mother’s baked cookies smell fills the air. I take a deep breath in and smell the sweet, salty ocean, cookies and car sweat—and the corners of the sky seem to lift and say, “I feel the same way.” There is only one thing missing: a souvenir, something that I could paint a mural of in the sky when I got home. And then something sparkles, shining like a diamond. I run from my mother’s grasp, and into the icy water. But now I do not feel the coldness or see my feet turn blue. My mind is focused on something. The water pulls from the sand and the something goes with it, slowly toppling over itself, and then it is gone. The water pushes towards the sand and it shines like a star. I dash for it and quickly pick it up. I rub it, shining it on my shirt as I walk back up the beach. I move it from hand to hand, massaging it, making it burn my hands. One side has a metallic glaze and the other is just a shiny black shell. The shell seems magical, as it rests in my hand, sending waves through my body. All of a sudden a little hand reaches from behind me and snags the shell. I turn quickly to see my tiny cousin’s gold locks swiftly moving down the beach and into my aunt’s arms, her pink cheeks flushed and her little body heaving. I want so badly to scream, to run towards her and snatch the shell from her tiny fragile hands. But all I can do is cry. The hot tears stream down my face, making tiny bubbles in my eyes. I rub the tears away and run towards her. Tiny bits of sand fly in the air behind me, making little whirlwinds. I slide across the sand arid kneel before her, pretending to be some humble servant begging for mercy. She smiles but keeps the shell locked in
