Cerulean Blues
pt. 1 of earning my diving certification to quench my saudade
HOMEWARD BOUND
It’s 2020 and I’m on an open road with vast green fields all around me. The sun is shining and I’m having a moment - the wind is perfect, I’m vibin’, all is well and then suddenly I’m yanking the steering wheel to swerve around a pothole. Ah, you gotta love Puerto Rico. Thankfully, the road is empty. It’s just me and Marc Anthony’s Preciosa blasting in my little red rental car. I’m belting the ballad at the top of my lungs, the windows are rolled down and it’s a decidedly good day.
I’ve just arrived to Isabela for a month-long stay. I’m in my father’s homeland to find out if the wonder and awe that inspired me as a kid is still accessible in the midst of pandemic doom and climate change fear. Here, the familiar comforts of ocean and family offer a small promise of hope.
As I’m driving along the island’s coast, I realize coastlines are the space that connects me to where I am from.
I have my uncle to thank for my love for the coast. When I was just a chubby kid, he’d arrive before sunrise on Sundays in his rundown Geo Metro car (the one with the saltwater faded grey seat covers) to take me to the beach. We’d walk along the Spacecoast for miles and end with a dip where he’d douse my face in salt water to help clear my sinuses while reminding me the ocean is good for you.
When I wasn’t at the beach, I’d spend hours in our backyard pool pretending it was the sea. The pool was my special universe where anything was possible; one moment I was a mermaid fleeing from monsters, the next moment I was a prince on the hunt for lost treasure.
But it’s 2020, my childhood is long gone and the times are getting way too real. I’m wondering, what does it mean to come home as a third culture kid when the landscape of home is constantly fluctuating between comfort and threat? What role does costeñahood play when our front yards are being swallowed by seawater, the sun is too hot, the shores are eroding, and with them our sense of security?
How are we processing climate reality in the closed doors of our homes, in our living rooms, art our kitchen tables?
What’s the language (spoken and non) we use to tell each other what’s happening to us and around us?
How are we preserving what’s here now while convincing ourselves everything’s going to be alright? Is everything going to be alright?
I planned to find myself on the coast each morning in a deep stretch on a blanket, greeting the sky with notebook in hand, feet in sand. I was there to reground. I hoped my time in PR would provide some answers for the climate unrest growing in the pit of my stomach.
I did find myself on the coast each morning, running the boardwalk, but as the month came to a close, I’d soon find out that God had other plans for my time on the coast…
Part 2 coming on September 15th, subscribe to get first access to the full story.
3 Awe ‘Tings
a short list of awe-inspiring content to help you through your week
📹 Sam Youkilis’ brilliant IG stories take me back to mundane beauty daily
🎧 Podcast Noor episode ft. Ayisha Siddiqua dropping straight wisdom/GEMS 💎
🎵 Luiza Solano’s epic ancestral boriqua inspired dj set will have ya movin’!