Sketches from a Childhood Sea
"… the sea is a continual miracle, / … What stranger miracles are there?"
—Walt Whitman
I was born surrounded.
*
Scroll down map. Manna.
My first glimpse of the archipelago.
Directive finger pointed at the dispersal,
god-thundered Here, brown islands
breaking up blue parchment
like a birthmark.
*
My tiny toes tickled by tropical sand,
I faced a roaring power, charging relentlessly
but unable to reach me. Great strength
and its limits.
Yet, drawn,
I refused to be brave against a great rapture.
*
Pacific Ocean. South China Sea. Babuyan Channel. Strait of Luzon.
Mindoro Strait. Bohol Sea. Sulu Sea. Celebes Sea. Philippine—.
*
We are not separated by water, rather connected by it.
*
My uncles each grabbed a limb—legs and arms—I feared being torn apart. A frog
pinned as an asterisk in science class, ready for the scalpel. Then swung like a
hammock until released into the monstrous mouth of the ocean. What they taught
the city boy was how to flail.
*
I loved the briny taste of me. Sea salt crusted on my lips, skin. The outrigger canoe
at sunrise, haul of the nets ornamented like Christmas.
*
Through the screen of urban night I try to envision the sea.
It is there, waves like sonar. Traveling hushed yet vibrating as underwater.
My mother was my original sea. I was divine, then microscopic.
I outgrew, turned into raft, boat, yacht.
How do I remain saline?
*
Before I was born
the world existed.
(Imagine.)
I was set aside:
one cell,
ocean reconfigured.
The depths roused
my animal life.
Crawled.
Horseshoe crab with its
shell of chitin.
Before consciousness
ships had sailed
across histories.
*
I was then moved to the other end of the Pacific.
*
As I flew over it, on an American plane,
I reminisced of the summers shrimping
in the tributaries, of fishing boats laden
with lobsters and sun-golden men,
of the time I bicycled over a toad,
flattened on my hurry to the sea.
- Joseph O. Legaspi (from Memorious)