Basalt by Lauren Irish

On fine Puerto Rican sands I stravaged adjacent to the bellicostic ebb and flow of the Caribbean Sea. The conspicuous whitecaps that choked the basalt lining the coast and seafloor were as much of a warning as any animal’s colorful aposematism, and yet I ignored them for my mind was on the potential of the perfect swimming spot.

The water was warm despite the recently chilled air, and the palm trees were pirouetting with the squall, which blew my hair to the left, sticking to my sunscreen, and playfully blinding my view of the blanketed sky. I fearlessly kicked at the incoming tide, and declared my greatness to the sea. I told it that I was unafraid of its depth and strength, and would defeat its slow movements in a game of tag any day. I stepped into the waters to begin the game, confident of the outcome. When I was five years old, the ocean tried to steal me away, and what I can remember is enveloped in inky waters and jagged seaside basalt.

A stroke in the wrong direction, and the current greedily swallowed me whole. I can recall my hand clawing at the open air, but my eyes squinted past the salt as the rest of my body stayed under. My arrogance washed away with the last of my air as my scream was contained in quiet bubbles below the surface. No one was coming to help me. In one last attempt to return to my life, I pushed my feet from the bottom of the sea floor towards a nearby jut of rock, slippery and speckled chartreuse. I hugged the basalt and ran forward, skidding across the recalling waves. I tumbled onto the dry dunes and away from the deafening sounds of the sea. Still twelve years later, that moment snags on the daydreams of my lotus-eating mind. The soggy silencing fate that could have occurred