I Fear the Ocean

At six years old, I nearly drowned.
I wanted to join my siblings in the sea,
So I jumped in, buoyant with confidence.
As I broke the surface I realised
You need more than that to swim.

My brother fished out my body like driftwood
And tossed me onto the shore, hammering my chest
Until the water oozed out of me.
He wrapped a towel around my shivering form
Before returning to the sea.
He could have stayed, but he did his part.

We did not go to the hospital.
I sat with my mother on the beach,
Her chastising me as I rubbed sand
Off my feet and watched the waves
Creep towards us, creating lakes from footprints.
The children visiting tomorrow will never see them.

I did not cough it all up.
There is a pool of seawater sloshing around
In my lungs, in my gut.
Each breath smells of brine,
The salt remains stuck to my skin.
Worst of all is the water in my ear canals.
I lie on my side when I sleep, hoping it will trickle out,
But the water never leaves.

Sometimes, when someone barely escapes drowning,
Fluid will fill their lungs later.
Pulmonary edema.
You could be miles away from the water
And still suffocate.

At eighteen years old, I fear the ocean.
I fear riptides and whirlpools,
Tsunamis and rising sea levels,
The gaunt-faced ghosts that haunt its depths,
The chaos under the calm surface.
I fear that, one day,
I will drown.

Dee Ó Dálaigh-Rónáin is a nineteen year-old English, Psychological Studies and Creative Writing student at the National University of Ireland, Galway. Alongside poetry, he is interested in playwriting and creative nonfiction, and is currently writing a play based on his experiences with the Irish transgender healthcare system. When not writing, Dee is a big fan of baking, playing video games with his friends, and cursing himself for not writing more.