Prologue
I was three years old, and I no longer had a mother. My father was lost in his own dark place. Even at that age, I always turned to the warm ocean for comfort.
Mermaids fascinated me. They lived in the grace of the ethereal and swam free. I had no fear of a vast ocean without boundaries. It was my magical place to escape the things I did fear. Swimming with confidence like someone who was half-fish and half-girl, I could be a mermaid. My favorite thing to do as I dove into the ocean was to disappear deep below the surface where the water was cooler. I searched for seahorses and followed them as long as they allowed me to.
In that green salty sea, I sought to fill large holes of emptiness and fulfill a desire to immerse my young spirit swimming free and wrapped in safety. That is where I wanted to be—not in the concrete world of hurt and hurdles.
I grew up in Key Biscayne, Florida, a small, quiet island near the big city of Miami, where balmy beauty was a daily gift. All those years ago, my island paradise provided white sand beaches and clear tropical water where my toes were visible in the sandy bottom.
I envied mermaids and the secrets they held while gliding through the oceans of the world without having to stay in concrete landscapes for too long—the places where wounds are endured.
Eventually, I knew I would have to walk out of the ocean, to shifting sands. After losing a mother who protected me, and a father I could not reach, I did not want to be on the shore. I wished to be in the ocean as a mermaid bathing in magic.
Gulf Stream Awakening
I embarked on an adventure during a teen year of first love. Traveling over the Florida Gulf Stream became a turning point in my young life. My boyfriend took me out in his Boston Whaler, a boat we used for skiing and lobstering in the calm flats nearby, from our local yacht club. We launched it, and the familiar shore grew distant.
After a few hours, the ocean turned blackish blue…and very deep. We had passed into a dark ocean but beneath the waterline, creatures were free in their element. Tuna and swordfish jumped out of the water in marvelous displays of life force. I had only seen these fish before in a kitchen. On a plate for dinner.
We moved deeper into the Gulf Stream, further from any shore than I had ever been. I was mesmerized by the sky deepening from a friendly blue to violet. Cottony clouds transformed into one big threatening one enfolding us into another world, and my electrified breath quickened. The safety of Key Biscayne was far from sight.
A new thrill overtook me, and I liked it. And then, a stillness fell over me. Wrapped in these thoughts and the mystical surroundings, there was a powerful desire to dive into the waters and drift forever in its daytime yet midnight blue mystery, to become mermaid at last.
I was suddenly alive like never before by being united with the sea, air, and ocean life. Everything else slipped away as my body and spirit were pierced with a good, and a sharp, sensory awakening.
The two of us drifted further into that strange ocean. The floor below us was full of ancient stories and shipwreck treasures. Thoughts of times past, the lives of other seafarers and wandering mermaids on these waters through history, stormy dangers, and other natural disasters, filled my head until my body spoke. Wearing only a skimpy bikini, my golden tanned skin prickled from a chill.
A swordfish, larger than our boat, jumped from beneath the waves to show off by touching the sky. That magnificent fish shimmered shades of gleaming purple before splashing back down to create spectacular waves.
The modest boat rocked hard in the ripple effect. I willed my hands, grasping the sides of the boat, to stay safe. In such a vulnerable place, yet in a precious moment where all my senses were signifying, I was aware of a need to be open, adventurous, passionate, and free—no matter how huge my fear.
My attention turned back to my boyfriend, Bob. He was the perfect likeness to Romeo in that film by Franco Zeferelli. I caught his excitement and love for me in green eyes God surely created to torment women—eyes that hypnotized my teen heart. He held my gaze as his eyes turned emerald from the hue of the deep-sea water. His thick, wavy, deep brown hair blew back against the horizon. His muscled physique held a strong command of our shared vessel as we navigated the unpredictable waters. Suddenly, a sly smile caught my eye.
“This is where the Bermuda Triangle is supposed to be,” he said.
That moment was the beginning of my journey as a restless soul. I was seventeen at the time and already damaged by loss and other hardships. But there was a hunger to discover that life could be exquisitely dramatic and inspiring, even though life would be far easier if less acutely aware of everything and everyone around me.
Since childhood, I have been able to sense and take on the suffering of others. It is exceedingly difficult for me to be content with “what is” because I know there is always more beneath the surface. Longing for reality to be as I imagine it could be is a nagging ache that runs from my soul into my bones. As the decades of life continue to pass, my quantity of hope swings from being vast as the sea to as small as a grain of sand. This longing, this hope—each come from a place in me that feels infinite.
Crossing over the Gulf Stream became a metaphor for life. The boat—my body. The ocean—my heart and soul. The sea creatures—life itself. When I find myself in the middle of a Bermuda Triangle, my curiosity rises to beat harsh challenges and overcome the unimaginable.
Whether walking on Earth or submerged in saltwater, I have uncovered treasure and found intrigue making my way through the waves of life—even if those waves were so high, I could not see over to the other side.
Come swim through the waters with me.
Cornflower Blue
I have two early memories of my mother—white sheets and climbing into the window of a hospital. Neither are vivid.
In the first one, I’m not sure if it’s a real memory or a dream. I was a toddler, sitting on our back patio, watching her hang laundry. Sheets were billowing all around her in a familiar, strong, warm Florida breeze—one that could dry anything in fifteen minutes. She wore a sleeveless blouse. In her hands were made of wooden clothespins.
One of the clean bed sheets fishtailed around the lower half of her body. Looking very much like a mermaid, she unfolded out of it. Then she became my mother again, and continued the task of hanging other sheets, towels, and pajamas. Between hangings, she’d look at me and smile.
I can still visualize that look from her—pure sweetness and love. My mother must have loved me because I felt it in my baby bones.
A bit later in my young life, I went with my dad and brother to the hospital. We kids were not allowed to visit, but our father believed that rules were meant to be broken, and I remember how we climbed the stairs meant for emergencies on the side of the building. Then we climbed inside a window to our mother’s room.
My brother and I sat on the floor and watched TV while dad spoke with mother. They were behind a white curtain, their voices whispering. At some point, a nurse came into the room. We did our best to appear invisible. She glanced at us, smiled, and didn’t say a word. Apparently, she didn’t follow all the hospital rules either.
Days passed, and then there was bad news.
Now my mother was sleeping in a long box and wearing a chiffon nightgown in cornflower blue. I stood staring at her instead of reaching out with my small hand to open her eyes so she would wake up. Her dark brown hair was splayed out smoothly on a white satin pillow. She was so still, but still alive to me.
The most vivid memory I have of my mother is when she was dead.
All I wanted was to crawl into the box and lie down beside her. My face would be next to hers on the soft pillow. It was the same feeling I’d had when wanting to sleep curled up next to our cat’s newly discovered baby kittens.
I am sure I had been told that Heaven was this beautiful place, and my mother had gone there. Staying close and holding on to her wherever she might go was where I needed to be. I wanted to open her eyes but remained frozen in my dress-up shoes. If I had reached over to wake her, would I have been haunted for so many years afterwards? The last memory of that scene is when I was guided away by dad.
In family photos, I am the little girl hugging a cat, sporting a boy’s haircut, looking into a camera, eyes filled with wonder and a haunting sadness. After my mother left me, my greatest source of comfort, entertainment, and joy came from my cats. Seeking somewhere to give and receive affection, I turned to a pet cat, burying my face in its silky fur. Cats have their own way of doing things and will take off in a flash before their person is ready to let them go. With the sash of a doll’s dress or a ribbon trailing behind them, my cats would grow tired of me dressing them up and placing them on the sofa like people, so they’d flee and take refuge.
But I understood them.
The death of my mother caused a silent grief so piercing that everyone, in their own way, stepped around it like broken glass. When our cats died, disappeared, or were taken away, I grieved all over again.
It was just after my mother died when our adopted stray cat, one that didn’t stay long enough to be named, presented us with a litter of kittens. I remember when we discovered the four helpless, sweet kittens in our outdoor laundry room.
A short time later, their mother went missing. We suspected a male cat that had been hanging around had probably chased off the mother because he’d killed the kittens by breaking their necks. Those newborn kittens had not yet opened their eyes, and now they were dead. This shock and first exposure to violence entered every part of my body and spirit. As little as I was then, I still can see those lifeless kittens.
While my mother was still alive, we’d moved to a brand-new home in one of those strangely uniformed suburbs in South Miami. Because blue was her favorite color, the walls inside were painted shades of blue, and the outside a soft shade of sky blue. The builders of the houses in that neighborhood swept away every natural thing in sight as they put up blocks and blocks of new homes leaving one lonely palm tree to sway in the breeze.
My mother did not live long in that house. Both she and the kittens were swept away with the rest of that original landscape. Our blue house never had a chance to put down roots.
Across the street sat a vacant lot with that lonesome palm tree. My dad, my gangly older brother at the age of six, and I went there with a shovel to bury our kittens. I remember standing there and feeling as empty as that lot. I looked across the street at the house my mother no longer occupied and then looked up at my father and brother, searching their faces for answers and comfort.
I wanted dad to create magic and repair our kittens, saving them from being buried in this lonely place. He wasn’t superhuman like I wanted him to be; he couldn’t save the kittens or our mother no matter how tall, strong, and handsome he was. My brother, always eager to please did not wear his usual sunny smile to go with his halo of white-blonde hair. What a sight the three of us must have been standing there, wordless, in our Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, with a shovel.
Now, I stared at the kittens being buried as dirt flew into the hole and around me, swirling in the warm wind, as all sight of fur was going away, lost, just as the sight of my mother was lost in layers of her favorite blue. Instead of crossing the street to go back to our empty home where we were meant to survive, I wanted to crawl into the hole and cuddle the kittens.
The silence was broken when dad said, “That’s it. Let’s go.”
My feet moved to follow, but a part of me drifted back to this little hole covered with dirt, to another long box covered by dirt holding my mother. I was so stunned by death and fearful of what could come next that I moved into a blank space, an out-of-body shelter, that I remained in for many years. I’d created a functioning state where I learned to be self-sufficient and strong while my interior world was fragile and restless from nagging pain that only the ocean could ease.
After the burial, I kept wondering why they weren’t alive. There they lay in a little hole, blending fur into one another so that I could no longer see four kittens, but a mix of colors all becoming one. I wondered if they’d gone to Heaven like my mother. How would the kittens find her? How could they get out of that hole and fly?
They’d put a cover over the box my mother was in, and she disappeared. I didn’t know how she could get out, and I tried to imagine her flying high in a sky wrapped in waves of cornflower blue chiffon to arrive in Heaven…and to be happy there. Why would that make her happy instead of being here with us?
The only words I can recall dad saying about my mother dying was on the day he came home from the hospital for the last time. The three of us were standing in the hallway when he said, “Your mother is gone. We will survive this.”
I didn’t understand what “survive” meant, but I did sense it meant staying quiet.
My dad never again spoke about her death, and neither did I.
I was, and remain, as fragile as a baby seahorse, yet I’m restless as a caged jaguar. Seeking Heaven anywhere I stood became a saving grace. The loss of my mother and those innocent baby kittens triggered a pattern of anxiousness and sleeplessness—and yet—a great visual imagination that launched me into nights and days of dreaming in all shades of cornflower and mermaid blue.
