Child of the Sea

It lies restless and discontented, rears in flares of temper and slumbers with a gentle lull. But to sleep, it never submits. It never draws still, never falls silent. Like a living organism, the sea never ceases to breathe—it will never quell its stirring. 

If you pan from the sea, raking across the constellations of shingles, up over the dunes and the gossiping reeds, the skeletal memory of a building sits succumbing to the elements. Its few fragments of walls and roof were drawn like a tattered shawl over the frame of an elderly man. For many in the town it was a place of business. For Iris—the women tracing its walls that day—it had been a home, at least of sorts. The orphanage's meagre presence attested to its long period of neglect. The fact that any of it valiantly remained was admirable. 

The fact that anything of Iris remained was admirable too. The orphanage had been severe. Its cluttering of children left no room for love. The building has been a house to Iris in the sense that it had provided a roof over her head, food in her belly, security. But it had not been a home; there was no affection, or love or joy. No, in that sense home was a few feet away: where the sea languished on the sand and sculpted the rocks ever smoother and more worn. 

Iris did not remember how she came to wander the halls of the orphanage. The sisters that ran it could not even guess at her name much less her circumstances of arrival. God's will, was the vague mantra she was met with when she sought an answer.

Gods will, Gods will, Gods will. 

Iris did not believe in God. 

The orphanage offered no love, nor did the sisters, nor did their God that shuttled children through theorphanage door because of his will. Where she found love, in a most pagan fashion, was the sea. 

To escape the orphanage Iris would sneak off to the shoreline, marvelling at the feeling of sand scratching her feet. She would spend hours drawing artworks on the beach, carving the lines with a long stick she hid in the dunes. As her literacy and numeracy skills were patched together by the sisters’ classes she would carve words as well, often her name very large. Then very small. As her education advanced she would recount poetic verses and biblical scripture and mark it just out of reach of the waves. 

Then at the next opportunity to slip away, she would find her earlier efforts drowned by the sea. An unadorned stretch of sand would present itself. A blank canvas. Yet Iris—instead of feeling betrayed—found great enjoyment in this. The past was whisked away, and opportunity presented ahead. The sea in its simple swelling and receding of the tide, offered her something the orphanage never could. It showed her a future unburdened from her past, one of opportunity. 

And despite her artwork’s demise, what the waves took, they also brought. The shells, seaweed, smashed pottery, bottles, and smooth-edged glass shards were scattered and left glistening, like treasure in the sand's protective folds. Iris used these to fashion more art; she collected treasures to build towers and even jewellery when she could steal thread from the sisters cabinet. And every time, she left these creations on the beach, or occasionally nestled in the dunes by her drawing stick. She would not let the sisters see them; as if their very glance might destroy the haven she had come to enjoy.

When she grew older and bolder, she would bring boys from the town down to the beach along with a few of her friends from the orphanage. They would build a fire and huddle by its warmth. Watch as the flames' reflections danced in each other’s eyes. Cigarettes stolen from fathers pockets or a liquor bottle from grandparent’s cabinets would be shared. The cigarette smoke would form tendrils drawn to the plume of fire, and the heat would warm the liquor, making it far more disgusting than the young children found it already. 

The sea would join them, watching peacefully from the backdrop. Iris always felt like its gaze was particularly focused on her. 

Come morning, sun bruising the horizon, Iris would never fret that the sisters would find evidence of her nightly exploits. Whenever she returned to the spot of the night before, the sea had swept up the remains and whisked it into obscurity. Even their footprints were filled. 

The sea grew to be a constant in Iris life, even in her bedroom its crashing melodies would flutter in and offer a reassuring presence. And when she sat in the window seat she could see it across the dunes, a quilt of many shades of blues, green and steel. 

So, when the sisters scolded her, or friendships floundered, and on that day of first heartbreak with a skinny fisherman’s apprentice, Iris would go running to the sea for solace. Its own salty tears would mix with hers and its fingers would draw up the sand to lightly comfort her. 

When the day came, nothing was different. The sky looked the same, people trudged their usual paths. The sisters remained incessantly preoccupied with anything but looking after the children. Nothing noted this as a day of particular significance. Yet it was this day that Iris was to be released from the orphanage. This day, freedom was finally her's. On this day like many others, she could be found down at the water’s edge. She was gazing out at the sea, wondering how to express the connection she felt, wondering how to show gratitude for the care she had been shown by this volatile force of nature. Pondering this, a small shell caught her eye. She absently picked it up. It was small, white with a curve and almost folded into itself on the underside. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Iris looked up to identify the voice, seeing its origins to be a man whose skin and posture displayed his many years. His long grey hair—shaggy and thick—shielded his face from the airborne grains of sand. 

“Pardon? 

“The shell you're holding, it's called a cowrie.”

Iris looked at it more closely, it lay starkly white, and seemingly fragile, against her skin. 

“They were used as currency in Africa, considered very rare and valuable,” the stranger said. “And people say other things about them.”

“Other things,” Iris felt intrigued by this stranger, a peculiar feeling of familiarity. 

“They say a cowrie, in spiritual meaning, shows you could be family to an ocean spirit.” 

Iris traced the shell's ridge. 

“I love your eyes.” The man’s change in topic confused Iris. 

“You know eyes tell us so much about a person. Your parents give you your eyes. You can look at two people and know they're related—looking into one after the other you get a sense of Deja vu. As if the same person both times is looking back at you.” 

Iris did not know what to make of the seeming compliment. 

“Your eyes remind me of the sea.” This was the stranger's parting comment as he walked away. No introduction, no farewell. 

Iris held the cowrie and thanked the sea. 

Iris withdrew her hands from tracing the orphanage wall. Standing in its ruins she felt no loss. On the beach, her children were scouring the sand, hunting for cowrie shells. The same shell that was carefully attached to a leather choker around Iris neck. She fiddled with the shell occasionally;instinctively seeking it out for comfort. She felt it was a promise. She felt it was love. She felt the sea with her, like family.