Where The Tentacles Go

Many say that spring is the time when life is born again, when flowers blossom from the eaves with leaves like the wings of phoenixes. For me, however, it is summer.

Summer, when the glossy waters of high solstice shimmer like angelic dew. Ambrosia of the finest tints of gold where spume and salty salvation meet to rectify the soul. Island summers of my home resemble paintings by Claude Monet. Indeed, I like to believe that it is my grandfather and I in ‘Impression, Sunrise’. There we are, forever on our little luzzu boat, ready to scour the sea for nourishment. From the fattest of tunas to the plumpest of seabream, our nets could have put St. Peter’s to shame. Though still, I like to think it is God’s hand that guides us through lazy waters, our hearts forged in tradition and religion while our eyes are as wide as the traditional ones on our hull.

Though this time, my grandfather cannot follow, and my eyes hold only the sea. I am as alone as a seagull with no wings, a ballotra like the one in my picture books, but with no padded feet. I suck on olives from our family tree and walk on Aleppo needles like some forgotten saint, whose ship did not wreck but set sail without her. It is unfair for me to do what I am about to, though I do not care; the quicker I walk, the nicking and pricking of needles and pinecones send a thrill down my spine. My hair whips in the air and the second I smell the sea breeze and eye my purple friend, Little Widnet, I know I’m almost there.

The whispers of the windy evergreens tell me to turn back because I have no business on the sea alone. They tell me there is no friend who will save me should the ambivalent tendrils of water pull me under. I shake my head, spitting an olive pit at them. For if my nation’s favourite poet sang of my second home’s greatness, then why should I worry?

The sea was my friend, my grandfather’s, and till this day it remains the only place I feel alive. The only place I can still feel every fibre of my being tickle me like a parent would its child. Like my grandfather would.

When I pass by Little Widnet, greeting her solemnly, she dances with the zephyr, and I know it is a salute acknowledging our familiar fallen soldier. I dare not confront her longer when I hear the screeching homeward cry of a gull, so I begin to walk down, down, down the familiar path of cape sorrel and black ants before finally reaching the secluded spit of land peppered with fishing boats.

It does not take me long before I find her. Calypso, in all her colourful glory… she almost seems as though she were blushing, her red stripe as bright as ever with the scorching sunshine idolising her many colours and curious eyes. It was as if she were surprised to see me and questioned my presence by swaying against the salty breeze.

I throw my rucksack of equipment in her carvel-built embrace and plop myself inside, my feet slapping against the interior like a foetus in a womb. It is then that I begin to lift the traditional oars I had begged my grandfather to keep and not replace with motors, now pushing against the water. Each oar moves in tandem with my steadfast heart, each flick of spray and salt gives me an innate thrill each time I falter, for my muscles have grown weak with my weeping. But when I finally reach the familiar fishing spot near an open-mouthed cove, I understand the pain was worth it.

I had purposely decided to leave my cave of solitude in the late afternoon, instead of attending a world of withering white roses and marches for this moment. I was set to go back home with an octopus, something my grandfather had failed to do.

This multicoloured alien had always escaped my grandfather’s attempts at capture, so I presumed that if I were able to overcome this feat, I would be proving that in some ways my grandfather’s life, his legacy and hope, would continue. Deep down, I knew it was futile, that my weak and ill-equipped being would not allow me to succeed. Though such a notion took root in my mind the second I was given the bereaving news, this new mission gave me a newfound purpose which I had undoubtedly lost.

In fact, it fuelled me with a surge so great that I had not even thought to use a fishing pole and net. I opened my rucksack, a stench of crab meat wafting out, and dumped the contents equally in pots which I later tied to my boat and let drop down to the seabed. If I were to catch such a creature, I had to do it the hard way, my way. It was then that I lifted my shirt and tugged it off only to hear a plop in the water. My heart stopped. I looked down. Surely, I hadn’t already caught something?

But no, the only thing I saw was a watch.

My watch.

My grandfather’s heirloom watch.

It drifted downwards into the sea’s embrace, down, down, it’s face shining as if it waved goodbye as I, dumbfounded, watched it disappear. My heart lurched forward, and before I could even comprehend what I was doing I had grabbed my snorkel, ignoring the rest of my equipment, and dived down after it.

It was the one tether I had left to someone I had considered home, someone who gave me life when I felt mine slip out of my hands, like the grains of sand I would soon feel under my fingernails as I searched. I let myself fall deeper, pushing against the barriers of water with my hands to only be welcomed by a world of coral. Peach and aquamarine, vibrant ruby and a thousand shades of mauve.

I could already feel goosebumps prickle my skin.

I dived further, the pressure of all the water hitting me like a mallet to a gong as, frantic, I scared away all of the life in search of a trinket of a dead man long gone.

My life long gone.

No fish came to my rescue as my hands swerved against harsh coral, my fingers nicked and pricked by my movements, slow but precise.

I could have almost screamed had it not been for a flash of tangerine in the corner of my eye that stifled my cry. I turned around, suddenly feeling sick before I swam back up for some gulps of breath before descending back down.

And there, awaiting me patiently, was an octopus.

Far away from the baited traps I had placed, it eyed me curiously. I stared at it, my snorkel masking my hurt pride. Was it mocking me for the life I lost? Was it enjoying the pain I felt?

It eyed me as if I were the spooked animal and not the other way around, but before I even knew what was happening, it was swimming up to me, getting closer to me each time its sinewy tentacles splurged upwards. I noticed a familiar shining object clasped in one of its arms.

The watch.

Soon we were face to face, the octopus and I, and I could barely understand the situation before I noticed a scar so similar to my grandfather’s on its face. It closed its queer orbs delicately before lifting the shining arm with the watch up to me.

What did it want? Why wasn’t it dashing away as I lifted my own arm to take it?

My fingers grazed its rubbery skin, and my mind darted back to a time of me placing my own hand on my grandfather’s wrinkled one. My breath hitched, and I had to dash back up for some air before coming back down to the octopus, lifting its arm once again, offering me my reward.

I took it gratefully and the corners around its eyes crinkled almost as if it were smiling before moving gently away, slowly, slowly, and swimming back down to the depths, an arm waving, as if it were bidding farewell.

* * *

That day was one I know I will never forget. As I sit on my bed, the sound of sea waves lapping through my window, I smile for the first time in weeks. Now, I can look at the shimmering watch on my arm and comprehend the true precursor of my being. That while life as I knew it had seemingly dissipated away, there was still the possibility of it beyond the mortal planes, beyond the bustling shores, beyond the loud raucous people, beyond the song, the food, the heat. There, in the lull of waves and the deep horizon, nestled life in the Mediterranean.