Amiri's Mother

It swelled gently beneath him as the small island shrank behind. His mother’s kiss still wet on his cheek. He acknowledged the ocean with a nod and a grin as white as pearl, remembering how his grandfather had taught him. Singing songs as old as the reef itself, he paddled, asking for calm weather, gentle currents and enough fish for supper. The ocean didn’t respond. He just felt it breathing deeply beneath the boat.

He was thirteen.

Although his broadening shoulders and reef-scared hands suggested otherwise. He wore a necklace made of fishing line and tiny seashells, a gift from his auntie to bring good luck. Eyes the colour of deep water and born on the sand to a rising tide while his grandmother sang songs to the ocean. Amiri, although she would never say it out loud, was his mother’s favourite. But she knew he was a child of the ocean. They all were. And the ocean would take them back when she felt the time was right.

His father leaned against the doorway of the fishing hut under the shade of the trees and watched as he hauled the small wooden boat through the surf and onto the beach, dragging it up above the tide line. Carved from a single tree, handed down through generations and given to him by his grandfather when he became too frail to cast a line. The boat bore scars of its own. Reef marks on its underside, each one telling its own story and a dent at the front where it was flipped by a hurricane and tossed in the ocean like a plastic toy.

The day had arrived, his father thought. He was strong enough to fish alone.

The reef shimmered like stained glass. Rainbows of coloured life flashed and danced beneath the surface, the sky reflecting the colour of the water. The water reflecting the colour of the sky.

Amiri reached the edge where the water dropped to a deep blue. A flock of small white seabirds bobbed on the surface. He recalled his grandfather. Never casting a line until he’d listened for a while. Studying the tiny fish beneath. Seeing which way the currents ran. Waiting for the ocean to talk to him. To tell him where to fish. Sometimes he wouldn’t cast a line at all.

So, Amiri waited. As well as a thirteen-year-old could. He breathed in time with the rising and falling of the small boat. Checked his bait and retied his hooks. He was strong enough to fish alone but too young and keen to feel the change in the rhythm of the ocean. Too familiar with the boat and the sound of the gulls to sense the mood was different.

It was subtle to start with. A slight shift in the atmosphere. A tiny drop in air pressure. The bobbing birds felt it and took flight. The tiny boat was gently pushed further into the deep water as a warm breeze skimmed across the surface. Amiri leaned over the side and peered down. There was nothing. Just blue.

The ocean teased the boat at first, nudging it this way then that. Then, like a cat playing with a mouse, it gave the little boat a sharp flick. And just like that Amiri found himself under the water. He resurfaced spitting salt. No need for panic, he was practically born swimming. He kicked and grasped the side of the boat. The island, just a green and white blur on the turquoise horizon. His father, who had watched him paddle across the reef from the beach had drifted back home to gut fish and mend nets.

He called out but the swell swallowed his words. Amiri knew, like all born on the island that the ocean was his real mother and she would come for him when the time was right. The current, as warm as bath water, swirled around him. He could feel her pulling at his legs. Gently at first then more persistently. He lay his face on the side of the boat and felt the sun on the back of his neck, his wet grip loosening. He called out again only quieter this time, knowing that the words would not reach the shore.

“Don’t be frightened if she comes for you.” His grandfather would say. “Be pleased she has chosen you. You are lucky. Say thanks. Sing her the songs.”

No one was there to hear him singing.

No one was there when his strength ran out and his grip failed.

No one was there as he dropped slowly beneath the surface. His black curls drifting like seaweed.

The ocean was his mother and she had come for him. He wasn’t scared. He had been chosen. He relaxed and let his body move with the current. The reef felt welcoming, like an old friend. His lungs filling with water. His body becoming heavy. He sang thanks as he sank. His pearl white smile was the last thing to be seen from the surface.

Later that day the small boat washed ashore. His father found it on the sand. He pulled it up above the tide line. He did not cry. Just ran his fingers over the dent at the front to confirm it was the same boat. He whispered “Thank you”. That night the islanders gathered. Not to mourn. To celebrate. They lit fires and drank coconut spirits. They told stories of family who didn’t return from the ocean and sang songs. Songs as old as the reef itself.

Amiri’s mother cried silently every night for a month. He was her favourite. Eyes the colour of deep water, she could still feel his cheek on her lips. She knew now he shimmered like stained glass. He was the rainbows of coloured life dancing beneath the surface, he was the sky reflecting the colour of the water. He was the water reflecting the colour of the sky. Until they could be together again he was safe with his real mother.

The Ocean.