by Isabel Berrios-Brown
“Prisa, Muñequita,” Mamá said excitedly, calling me by my nickname. My real name was Maria Alonso Sanchez, but Mamá said I looked exactly like a baby doll at birth—pink skin, dimpled cheeks, and a crown of dark curls graced my little head. We were heading for Mar Chiquita, or Little Sea—a beach twenty minutes away from our home in Manati, Puerto Rico.
It was June 23, 1985, and we were on our way to celebrate La Noche de San Juan, which was an eve of a feast for Saint John the Baptist. For the last twelve years since my birth, my entire family has gathered at our favorite beach to celebrate Saint John’s birth.
For me, Mar Chiquita was a special place. The area was an oval-shaped, golden sand cove protected from the open sea by towering rock walls on either side. Every year as I reclined on the sand and stared out into the mesmerizing shades of emerald green and turquoise blue, I’d imagine myself una sirena—a mermaid born at the center of this glorious fan-shaped oasis with its crystal clear waters.
My cousins and I spent the day splashing in the ocean, tossing a beach ball, or burying each other in the warm sand. Now and then, we took breaks walking along the shoreline, collecting seashells, or climbing the rock walls. My favorite activity was searching for tiny snails to hide under my big sister’s pillow later.
In the evening, when all of my relatives gathered at the bonfire, my two abuelas, Mamá and others produced tasty ham and cheese sandwiches from large wicker baskets to share with all of my relatives—at least thirty of us altogether! Everyone enjoyed their delicious dinners with plantain chips and cans of refreshing coconut water. My uncles would get together to sing and dance, and soon, they’d have us all rolling on the sand with laughter from skits they’d created for our entertainment.
Even as the night cooled, the sand and sea stayed warm, and a million stars shimmered in the sky above. We all waited for the midnight hour, that magical time when we’d walk backward into the sea and immerse ourselves in the water. Tradition said that if we did this seven times, we’d have buena suerte or good luck for the rest of the year.
At dusk, Titi Josefa, my aunt, shrieked from the ocean claiming she’d been stung by a baby jellyfish. My cousins and I burst into giggles because Titi Josefa was renowned for her lunar antics.
Just before midnight, an electrifying rush of excitement filled the air as all of my relatives gathered at the crowded shoreline. Crowded because many other families were there. On one side, I linked arms with Mamá, and on my other side, I linked arms with my favorite cousin, Miguel. My family and extended relatives were linked arm and arm like a chain of DNA, readying ourselves to step back into the sea.
As one of my uncles announced the last remaining seconds before midnight, I stared up at the sky, searching for the glow of the moon as all of us attempted to walk backward into the ocean. We’d start strong in unison, but someone invariably would stumble over a rock or get knocked by a crashing wave. That’s when our family chain would slacken as we proceeded to immerse ourselves in the water. By the sixth try, our linked arms grew weak and unsteady as the older and younger members began to lose their rhythm.
My uncle Juan shouted, “Una mas!”
By the time we took our final step backward, most of us were unsupported by the others, but a rush of excitement invigorated us for the final dunk.
“Toma mi mano, Muñequita!” Mamá said above the crashing waves.
And just like that, I’d find my mother’s slick, steady hand in the dark beneath glimmering stars. Her firm grip was all the reassurance I needed as I allowed myself to sink back into soothing waves of the deep, dark sea.
This writing is part of a collection featured in the 2020 Celebrate the Arts Writing Contest, an annual contest hosted by The Arts Council of Westerville, Westerville Public Library and the ThisWeek Westerville News & Public Opinion as one of many events organized by the Arts Council to mark April as “Celebrate the Arts” month in Westerville.
