The Birth of an Island.
He didn’t know the water could be gentle. As his body lay sprawled against the surface of the sea, he felt the wave’s warm kisses comforting him. He could no longer see the ship that had carried him thus far, only the sound of the horn called out in the distance. The tone was mournful, and he wondered if the boat missed his presence.
He had gotten to know the ship well and developed a kinship as one would with those one suffered with. Every night he was face to face with the wooden floorboards in the forgotten depths of the holds. In the morning, the ship was there with him as his naked body was tormented by the sunrays, charring his brown body into a crispy black.
Now, as he lay within the sea, he clung onto the ships calls until they faded into the distance. When the calls could no longer reach his ears, the silence that replaced it was forlorn — a reminder that rescue was unlikely and death inevitable. The others before him had already gone ahead, their brown bodies floating around him like newly formed islands from underwater volcanoes. He stretched his arms out, hoping to touch any one of them, but the space between them was farther than he could reach.
The gentle waves grew aggressive, like the men responsible for his presence on the ship, pulling at his life force as if it were disposable, as if it was there to be used until it shriveled up and lost its value. He did not remember their words, but he remembered the virulence of the whip as it cracked against his back, breaking his skin into pieces like ancient pottery. He cried out, his screams blending with those that came before him, but the pain never stopped, even after the whipping did. Food became scarce, and hunger became constant, growing more aggressive like the tides.
The waves rushed him now, submerging his body in one swift motion, making their former kisses feel distant like the bliss of childhood. His lungs filled up with water, and as he lost consciousness, he decided to believe that his presence in the water was a choice — a final act of agency, before he became an island.
