counting waves in sevens
i. over the weekend, i dusted off the journal i wrote in during my tropical hiatus two and a half years ago. and contrary to what i remember, i didn’t scrawl in it nearly as often as i thought i had. and as vividly as i recall certain underwater escapades, those moments didn’t make their way into documentation. rather, i spent ink on missing people back in the states and wondering if i made the right decision to leave everything behind.
don’t get me wrong, the first month was breathtaking and rightly deserved after my tenure at a thankless job. nightly sunsets, tides lapping at sandy shores, happy hour sounds from rumours bar, being surrounded by relaxed and tanned vacationers. i could easily have bottled these clichés, shelved them and reopened them during a bitter chicago winter, just to have a nostalgic smile return to my face.
but the truth is, i’m not a successful expatriate. the first few weeks, i expressed enthusiasm with helping out at the dive shop and the sea aquarium. i offered to do some portraiture for a man in his newly adapted environment to send home to his family back in holland. i even submitted my resumé to a local newspaper hoping to edit the poorly written english sections. but as each opportunity failed to materialize for whatever reason, the realizations started creeping up.
i had willingly removed myself from my comfort zone as i had done in the past. but this time, i wasn’t any good at the upheaval. and instead of continuing to thrive on my initial ambition, i started to retreat. and then boredom struck.
the daytime hours were spent roaming around the towns of punda and otrabanda alone, taking photographs, but even my interest in that waned (as i now kick myself for only expending about 15 rolls of film for three months). and evening hours of solitude were off-limits considering safety was a palpable issue. so, i maintained my perch on a barstool, downing girly spirits while laughter abounded around me from people i knew but didn’t.
having said all that, i wouldn’t trade in the experience for anything, but rather, if given the chance to do it over, i’d labor to make it more successful. hell, i may have even gone for my divemaster certification after knowing what i know now about diving.
ii. one evening, the gang went to a beach party at someone’s house. her backyard happened to be the ocean. imagine that. this was during my latter caribbean days, where much of my time was spent introspecting instead of socializing. as the party wore down with the bonfire’s embers, my buzz found contentment with studying the ocean waves. i sat on a wall of sorts that separated the backyard from the edge of the water, staring into blackness, concentrating on the faint roars of the incoming tide. a dutch boy whom i befriended briefly told me of a theory regarding the pattern of ocean waves. even in my beer-induced state, i knew he was bullshitting me but wanted to give it a whirl. supposedly, the seventh wave in each succession is the largest.
after several run-throughs, it was clear the seventh wave was bogus. but all was not lost. i coined the following lyric/line that used to be part of my email signatures. it always stirred up intrigue:
she sits on walls that line the ocean,
counting waves in sevens.