The sun doesn’t beat down, like a drum, it simply hangs, its warm weight pressing me all over into the beach. Pale grains cling to my damp skin as I push my feet back and forth slowly in the sand, relishing the heat and thinking dimly of my distant, frozen Chicago apartment. I smile, lying on my stomach on a towel, and touch my sunglasses with one finger to adjust them on my nose.
Light catches the plastic lens and I notice the man standing about thirty feet away, straw hat broadly shading his face, the light breeze rippling his lightweight shirt and trousers. He is facing the water, but it becomes apparent to me that he is actually looking in my direction. After a moment he turns fully away and continues walking down the beach. As he does, I realize I’ve seen him before; yesterday, outside the hotel, and the day before, at the grocery store down the road. This is a really touristy area, of course, so I guess I didn’t think of it at the time, but three times in three days is significant enough to make me want to sit up, gather my things and leave.
Only…
The sun is so warm, and I’ve only got one more day. He’s probably just a local. I find my eyes drooping close, the sound of the water pulling me gently into a sun-soaked daze of half-sleep and dreamless peace.
“Sascha? Sascha Wilbur?” A man’s voice, musical, good-natured and gentle. I rouse myself, blinking behind my sunglasses and squinting in the brightness, even with their helpful shadow.
“Yeah,” I groan, rolling over slowly. “I mean… yes?” Then I sit up sharply, too fast; it’s the man I’ve been seeing, the one who has been watching me. He sees my startled look and raises a weathered palm to reassure me.
“My name is Jonah,” he says, calmly. “I work for de hotel. Please, do not be alarmed. I did not mean to wake you.”
I’m confused. I thought I saw him walk away, and then I fell asleep… I don’t remember. I have no sense of how long I was out. I clear my throat, unsure of whether or not to believe he works for the hotel.
“My brother is de head cook at de hotel,” he goes on, “I run errands. Go shopping. Send messages. Please.”
He’s about as old as my father would be now, and there’s something really calm about his eyes that makes me believe him.
“So, do you need something?” I ask, awkwardly, not meaning to be rude but unable to help it. My sleepy mind is racing. He nods, reaching into his shirt pocket as the breeze picks up again across the water. He holds out a small clownfish, carved out of balsa wood and hand painted. I stare at him, not understanding.
“Five dollars,” he says, quietly. “If you want to see the reef. Fish eye view.”
“No thanks,” I say, and start to gather my things. He does not touch me or interrupt, but stays calmly nearby.
“My brother, he de cook. My sister,” he says, “she know tings.”
“Great,” I say, putting my magazines into the beach bag and reaching for my flip flops.
“She tell me, you find dis girl,” Jonah continues, unaffected by my hurry, “you give her dis fish, tell her, for five dollars she see all de reef. All underwater. Like a fish.”
“Your sister wants me to go snorkeling?” I ask, as I stand up to shake out the towel. He shakes his head, still holding the wooden fish in his fingers.
“She want me give you dis,” he repeats. “Say, if you want, for five dollars, you be a fish.”
“Wait,” I say, stopping with the sandy towel half-raised. I squint at him. “You’re saying if I pay you five dollars, I’ll turn into a fish.”
He nods. I stare at him. It’s preposterous. It’s like I’m still asleep, still dreaming. It’s so stupid. It’s the kind of proposition a little kid dreams about but no one ever really actually says out loud. Like something I’d make up in my head. But here is a man actually saying this with a totally honest face. He looks and sounds so calm. Like it doesn’t matter to him either way what I choose. Like he knows either way what the outcome would be. Like… I move my sunglasses to the crown of my head and stare at him.
“Your name is Jonah?” I ask, oddly. He nods again. “What’s your sister’s name?”
Jonah smiles. “Ariel.”
I feel the sand turn cold under my feet. I look at the little wooden fish in his palm.
“I’ll turn into a fish?” I say again, doubtfully. He nods, calmly. “For how long?”
“One hour,” he promises, with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Change your life. Long time, for a fish. Safe though.”
I can’t believe my gut actually wants me to do this. But it does. I reach into my bag for the five dollar bill and straighten again, looking him in the eye. He smiles assuringly, simply, and holds out the fish trinket. I make the exchange, and stare back at him as if there’s something else I want to say, but I can’t find the words. He looks grateful, and pleased, as if he knows I’m about to have a good time.
Or like he knows he just gypped me. Either one.
Finally I nod, pocketing the fish in my beach bag. “So when does this happen?” I ask, halfheartedly. Jonah puts his hands in his pockets and smiles, white teeth against his dark skin.
“Soon. Today. For one hour, little fish.” He kind of bows to me, and then turns and saunters away.
“Hey! How come she told you to find me?” I call after him. “Why me?” He pauses and looks back at me, shrugging slightly.
“She see you know how to swim, mebbe? Dere always a reason! Good luck, little fish!” He waves, and wanders off down the road.
I lay my blanket out again, oddly nervous, and sit down to wait to become a fish. Or resume my nap. Whichever happens first.
I nap for a while longer, then go back to reading my magazines, while taking the wooden fish out of my bag and looking at it every five minutes. It’s not magic. It’s not even interesting. It’s kind of pretty but that’s about it. I don’t feel like a fish. I don’t feel unusual at all. Now, mid-afternoon, I know I’ve been had. Oh well. Funny story it’ll make, won’t it?
I decide to take one last dip before going back up the hill to the hotel for dinner. It’s still light out and there’s enough people on this part of the beach still to be safe. I leave my sunglasses behind, cover everything up with the beach blanket, and head down to the water.
I wade in to my waist, watching a young couple teaching their infant son how to paddle his legs under his floatie supports, and showing him how to blow bubbles when the waves come up to his face. Beyond them, a couple of boys throw water Frisbees back and forth. I make it out to my chin, floating, admiring the clarity of the water, and then a broad ripple hits me across the face. I turn, blinking and sputtering, not having seen it coming, but even as I recover, another wave sucks me under the surface, almost playfully, and I dip lower to better recover from the unexpected momentum.
I raise myself upwards again, my eyes closed, and when I feel the surface break I open my eyes and inhale.
That’s when I realize, I can’t breathe.
I try several times, my lungs starting to feel smaller and smaller each time, and I panic, thrashing somewhat in the water. My limbs feel smaller, too. Another wave rolls in, and I wonder if it will push me to shore so that I can cough up the water and clear myself of the threat of drowning. It doesn’t push me to shore; it pushes me below again, and I cough and sputter, until, by instinct, I inhale again, surrounded by the sea.
I can breathe.
I breathe, below the waves, and the sky above me is muddier than the water that holds me. I cough, still taken by surprise, but breathe more steadily.
I start to swim before I realize what I’m doing with my body, and although I cannot see myself down here I consider for a few moments that perhaps I look something like the clownfish that Jonah gave me hours ago. Time suspended now, I thread forwards through the water, feeling currents of warm and cold, and instinct pushing me deeper below the surface, out of the way of the people, farther out to sea than ever I’d swim as a person.
I feel utterly amazed, but not overwhelmed. I feel okay. I feel clean and simple and happy. And up ahead I can see the colors of the reef. I can feel more fish around me, beyond and below. I can sense the minnows fluttering behind me to my left, wondering probably at how I came so far close to shore. I can’t turn to look at them, and I don’t really need to, so I keep swimming, feeling the lovely peace of how powerful small muscles can be in the weightlessness of water.
An hour, I remember, vaguely. I get one hour.
But fish don’t tell time.
An hour will last me a lifetime.
