Mulling Waters

Ever since he was a little boy, he’s loved the ocean even more than his own safety. Sometimes, he wonders if dying in the water would be more of a blessing to him rather than tragedy, since it always means that you either drown from an accident, or be drowned by someone else or yourself. But really, he would rather die in the ocean than have his death by sickness— withering away on a bed somewhere; or maybe elsewhere and not on a bed at all. That’s even more tragic, to know and count the days until you die, thinking of what ifs and lamenting the days you have left, wishing you could still walk around and have fun. Sudden death is swift, clean and crisp. Having no moment to even think of what ifs, or regret whatever you did to get you in that situation.

It is never a peaceful dying—his grandmother had once said—to die in the ocean, when he came back laughing from being swept away by the waves when surfing.

Maybe not for others, but for him it is. As long as it’s in the ocean, there is nothing to regret. It would be his choice to be in the water if he ever dies in it. He’d be the one to be taking his body there in the first place. If an accident happened, it would be his own choice to be in it, indirectly.

He knows this, knows of the consequence of dying when he gets into the water. Knows it whenever he’s on the surfboard, enjoying the wind in his hair and the salt in the corner of his eyes. Knows it whenever he’s deep under, hands carefully caressing colourful corals and grazing slimy fishes. Knows it whenever he spends hours floating on his back in the dancing waters while gazing at the sky.

“It’s always a sad tragedy, such an unfortunate incident that is, to ever die drowning,” his grandmother had said, tiny and wrinkled eyes gazing out the window, head shaking in a chastising manner. “Don’t ever take the ocean lightly, that place is not your friend, and will never be.”

He’d mulled back then, not knowing how to reply to such statement from an old and paranoid lady, whose husband had drowned in the ocean when they were only newlyweds. He knew then and he knows now, that the ocean truly isn’t a friend, but a home; home to fishes that feed the humans, and home to him that longs to be part of it.

For him, home isn’t a place for safety. It is a place that has a sense of fulfilment when you are inside, and longing once you are outside. It might not be safe, but it makes him feel contented. Safe is never a part of him. Never a part of his life, either.

His house now is the place for an alcoholic to sleep, and a dead brother to haunt anyway. It’s really not that big of a deal for him.

If he doesn’t die in his home in the ocean, it’s likely that he’ll die in his house instead anyway.