Closure?

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BY- Brent Simon

The sea has long been my refuge – my source of survival, my way of life, my teacher, my confidante. Many of my fondest childhood memories are of my family and friends spending weekends and holidays immersed in the beauty and wonder of our then pristine coasts.

These camping trips were more than just weekends away – it is where we learned to implement the academics taught in school into our life, even though we weren’t aware we were doing that.

We weren’t just playing – we were learning in the most natural way possible. And those lessons, the ones taught to us by the land and the sea, stayed with us far longer than anything written in a textbook.

The ocean became our master, its waves pushing and pulling us until we found our rhythm. Some of us starting out afraid, but by the end of the outing, we were diving into the depths of the coral reefs like we had saltwater in our veins as we learnt about biology and the limits of the human body.

We calculated the best fishing spots using tides and currents, a quite lesson in science which also enabled us to learn how difficult it is to provide while teaching us some of the skills necessary to do so.

Casting lines, setting traps, and learning the patience that comes with waiting for a bite. Whether it was a catch for the pot or just of something that piqued our curiosity, fishing became second nature.

Beside the water and the shore, the land also called to us. Hiking tested our endurance and navigation skills as we wandered through hidden paths, climbed hills for the best views, and discovered secret spots that no tourist map would ever mark.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we gathered around the flickering flames for social studies, roasting food, sharing laughs, and told fascinating stories which grew wilder with each retelling, we unknowingly applied our skills in math as we measured sticks and branches (kindling for the fire)- how material needed for how long a burn?

The ocean breeze, the moonlit waves, the warmth of the fire, it was impossible not to get caught up in the magic. Some loves were fleeting, others lasted, but each moment was unforgettable.

That same sea, that once taught me about life, and gave me adventure, and many pleasant lessons is now teaching me about death and grief and loss. Lately, it has become a grave that I never wanted to acknowledge.

Every ripple, every crashing wave, feels like a whisper of what was lost – a call from a friend who never came back.

I once trusted these waters, not just for survival but for memories, for moments than shaped me. Now, I stand at the shore, knowing it holds secrets I will never uncover, stunned by the betrayal – the lessons I learned on the water were supposed to guide me through life, not remind me of how fragile it really is.

Four of the six persons aboard the two vessels lost at sea over the past five months (FV Moya and FV Give Thanks) were my fellow fishers and friends, and I was acquainted with the other two, my brothers in the trade.

I find myself staring out at the water, hoping, praying, waiting even now, despite the search for the second vessel, FV Moya, being called off, ironically, on the day that the first vessel, FV Give Thanks, was found by divers in 50 ft. of water, just a few miles from the Barbuda coast.

I want to keep hoping but, the finality of it sits heavy on my chest. 

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