When I was a kid I’d swim out into the ocean and stop just when everything became quiet.

Away from the chatter of mothers and boys and girls running around on the warm, soft sand. Away from the sound of surf and the smell of grilled pork and San Miguel Beer. Away from the laughter of fathers and grandfathers and uncles who talked of sports and the president.

I’d bob up and down as the waves came and watch everyone from a distance, and if I turned around I could see the large passenger vessels moving ever so slowly before a grand sky.

When I felt brave enough I’d dive down into the dark where everything was blue and cold, and I would see what I thought were sea creatures, little fish, big fish, grassy things, creatures with tentacles. Sometimes I’d scare myself and think of giant hammerheads or mermen, then surface back up again, where the water trickled down my hair and into my eyes and roll across the bridge of my nose.

The wind would press down on my face and make ripples beside my arms and shoulders, and it would be wet around the edges of my earlobes and the skin around my fingers shriveled.

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