The State Department is Looking For You

Sabes Nadar? Laughter carries over the rising and falling of the water, creeping up the beach to the road. Six girls, two boys splash the water; playful, social. A single mangrove stands 10 or 15 meters from the dock. Alone. Spreading itself over the surface of the water, plunging itself into the ground. The children wave, looking and calling. We hesitate, we didn't bring anything to swim in. Fully clothed they dance in the waves, we need nothing to play in the ocean. Descending into the water their excitement grows. One of the boys bounds off the deck into my arms. We watch as they swim to the mangrove. Bending and twisting, they maneuver through its roots. Each swims back carrying two concas, they lay them on the boards at our feet. A gift of themselves to us, of the ocean: of itself to them. A little girl says to me, "no flotas bien." Early in the morning I swim to the island. No one is on shore to watch at this time, no one to wonder, to think about me. I swim, I pass end point after end point. When I look back I am too close: to the land, to the people, to the rest of the day. I swim further. I hang, rising and falling. Calm. Silence. Alone. Not thinking. Swimming toward the open, running away. On shore a door opens and shuts, at this I turn back to my company. The younger of the two boys in the group of kids playing on the dock never goes into the water. He sits. Alone. Staring into the ocean. He moves when we approach; moves to the other end. He sits alone. Him and the ocean. Alone.