When I was seven, I almost drowned. I can’t remember much from the entirety of my seventh year of life, but it seems as though near-death experiences leave you with vivid

memories. It was summertime in Texas and my family was spending the day on the coast. My parents divorced before I could remember, and it was a rare occasion that we all spent time together as a family. On that summer day, I can remember the smell of the air. It was salty and sweet, almost like the many beachgoers who decided to share their coconut-scented sunscreen with the air. Texas is notoriously hot, and this day was no exception. It was as if the heatwave was an invitation to long and lazy restfulness to the summer days. My family and I waded through the thick briny air and made it to the sand. I remember gazing upon waves of blue light over horizons unmeasured. It felt for a moment that life was the best possible gift to have. No school, my family was together, and the ocean was the catalyst to this joy as she whispered sweet songs that drew me in.

My mother and father were busy setting up a beach umbrella to shade us from the unrelenting sun. My older brother was busy chasing the seagulls that seemed like the everyday royalty of the coastline skies. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and independence in that everyone was busy in their own little worlds, and I was no exception. Having been deemed a water baby and a mermaid in a past life by my mother, I felt like my own little world would only be complete by a dip into the waves that were as strong and as bold as I felt. I waded into the water and although I entered feeling unbreakable, I was shortly reminded that there are powers greater than any emotion. I was soon swept out into the sea and reminded that I was merely a seven-year-old who could barely stay afloat against forces stronger than I. I do not remember much of what happened after that other than I was rescued by a college student and brought back to shore. I had sand-matted hair and enough water in my lungs to feel as though I was a small part of the vast sea. That was the last time my father joined us for a summer day on the Coast.

My father's absence in joining us on trips to the coast had nothing to do with my near-death experience. His absence was a testament to the fact that there really are forces greater than any emotion. As I grew, I had a newfound fear of the sea. In a sense, I felt betrayed by her. How could something that reaches around the world in a strong embrace squeeze me too tight and make me feel lonely? I told my parents that I no longer wanted to be touched by her warm embrace. I can remember the sadness in my father's eyes when I said that. He too grew up as a water baby and wanted the same for his children. Although he never went with me to the snow-white sand again, he taught me a lesson on fear. He told me that the more I feared the ocean, the more I took away the power I had to find the peace that lay beyond fear. I remember him telling me, “Lil, we are the ones who make things great. When we fear we will never find joy, it is not the fear that joy does not exist. It is the fear that we will no longer be able to create it. Emotions come from within us, and we get to choose what is deemed worthy of being great. The same goes for fear. Fear is something we create within ourselves, and we are the ones who get to decide its rule over our lives” He wanted me to love the ocean more than anything. As the years passed by, I returned to the Texas coast many times. I let the ocean sing me her sweet melodies and I kept the souvenir of my father's advice close to my heart. Although he never returned in person, he was always right next to me in his words and wisdom.

In the summer of my 21st year of life, my father passed away. I have always found it interesting that grief can be described as waves. Sometimes, the grief feels so strong that you get swept away and fight to catch your breath before the next wave rolls over you with uncompromising strength. Sometimes, the wave looks bigger than it might be but like a knowledgeable fighter, it saves its strength for the next round. Much like the saltiness of the sea, tears often leave salt-stained streaks on our skin too. I sometimes think that the ocean granted me a taste of the future when I felt these things physically during my seventh year of life. I have found that riding the waves of grief pushes you onto the shore and gives you the ability to stand with your toes in the sand and bear witness to the loving bond that survives the passing. Whenever I stand on the shore, I see my father.

LILLY E. REEVES is a junior pursuing a degree in English. Lilly passionately seeks authenticity in her lived experiences from travel to cats, cooking to reading, long conversations to simply “being.”