Caribbean Narrative

Moments

In the third grade, my family went on our annual trip to the Caribbean with my aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins. We stay on a small cay, Lovango, where there are no roads, no stores and only a few people. We were sitting in the house talking and someone brought up snorkeling. I asked what is was, when I learned that it meant I could both swim and breathe underwater, I was fascinated. I asked to try it and my parents said yes.

I walked out into the crystal clear waters, a light, almost clear greenish blue, slowly darkening into teal and then navy. Looked out into the Atlantic Ocean. One small cay, then nothing for thousands of miles. Excitement and nerves flooded my mind. I checked the snorkel mask and tube one last time. Then dove into the shimmering ocean. When I first went under, I closed my eyes and practiced breathing through the snorkel underwater. I opened my eyes and what I saw took my breath away.

I saw the lush purples and pinks, electric green and yellow, and the underwater fires from orange and red coral. And then the fish. Blending in to the fantasy landscape, then I noticed them, millions of fish darting through corals, rocks and larger animals. Ranging in size from my finger to the size of my arm. They started to swim around me, trusting and gentle. I looked to the sides and saw nothing but water. In front of me, Congo. A cay closed to humans. The animals can be heard and the birds soar through the sky dipping down by the water, Brushing the surface and flying up into the trees, whose seeds they brought years ago. Off to my right, Carvel Rock, a soft grey after centuries of waves crashing against it day and night. Looking at a sideways slant downwards, I could see the currents mixing in a swirling