WHISPERS OF THE SEA

WHISPERS OF THE SEA

By Enrico Gaveglia

UNDP Resident Representative in the Maldives

One of those early mornings, I woke up for no particular reason and found myself walking from my apartment down to the shoreline. I spot a wooden bench not far from the water and sit, my gaze fixed on its endless movement. Above, a crescent moon and a few lingering stars shine faintly in the dark sky. They won’t last long, but for now, they keep me company, holding with me the stories of 45 years of yesterdays and todays. I am here, in this moment. Nothing lies in front of me but the waves. They don’t break on the beach but a little farther out, where they tumble over the remnants of a tired coral reef.

Lights on the horizon turn red, and as someone nearby coughs and takes a seat, a crow greets the last glow of the moon, which has slipped away, leaving a few loyal stars that hold on a little longer. The colors of the sea blend seamlessly into the horizon, and if not for the faint, gray-clad shapes of clouds, I wouldn’t know where to place the ocean as a new day begins.

I wade into the water, gently caressing it with my fingers, the light now reflecting more brightly. To be honest, I’m also putting a little distance between myself and the first glances of the waking city. The water is cool but not too cold, and as I sit, like the night above me, I hold onto the lingering warmth of forgotten dreams, keeping them close to my chest a while longer. And I listen.

What are you trying to tell me, sea? How long have you been speaking to us? We don’t understand, yet you continue, as if hoping we might someday. I close my eyes to feel you more deeply on my skin, wishing perhaps you’d lull me back to yesterday. A slightly stronger slap from one of your waves reminds me that yesterday isn’t yours to give. As I place a hand to steady myself, you unveil a new blue and orange sky on the horizon. I look at you, now submerged up to my chin, and since I don’t understand your language, I try to find my own words.

I don’t quite know what to say to you, hoping for a sign, maybe even a shift in your rhythm this morning. The best I can offer is a prayer, which might sound more like a lament. I repeat it—five, ten times. I start to breathe with you, finding resonance in your melody, breathing into you. Two tears slip out unnoticed, perhaps to become a little more like you, or maybe, just for a moment, to forget myself. How many of us, near and far, are here with you?

The sun surprises me on the horizon, rising fiery and a little faster than I’d like. It feels as though it’s urging me not to ask too many questions, to simply stay, accept calmly, and await the day’s unfolding liturgy. In this moment with you, there’s no language, no understanding. Yet, despite our differences, you embrace me, drawing me into oneness as I submerge fully. I drift gently in your underwater currents, feeling a serene bliss, almost as if I could hold this moment without needing to breathe. But then, a shiver of fear anchors me back to the sand, propelling me to the surface as I realize I cannot disappear into the depths of your world.

A little girl in bright colors comes down to pick up a shell nearby, glances at me, and runs back to her mother. The sun, now pressing warmer on my forehead, urges me to retreat, and the moon I’d hoped would guide me back has disappeared along with yesterday. I stand, turning my back to you, humbled that you allowed me this moment. I carry a trace of your wetness with me, as you hold a piece of mine. I leave in silence, knowing that somewhere, sometime, someone else may come to you, while you go on speaking.