Staring at the Water: Do I Miss Home?

Heather and I were sitting at home one morning, trying to think of something that would break up the routine of working at things. I thought about El Cuyo, but it was too far for the kind of day we had in mind. When I mentioned staying somewhere near the water, she told me to book it.

We found a condo in Chicxulub Puerto, about thirty minutes from home, and went out that afternoon. It looked right over the water. We were excited to have something different to look at and maybe take a walk on the beach, though the heat meant the walk would probably last thirty seconds before it turned into a bad idea.

We’d been to the beach six or seven times since moving here, mostly for quick walks. Hotter, brighter, bluer. New shells and saltier water. The air smelled like PEI salty’s southern cousin. Until then, most of my experience of the beach here had been comparisons like those.

We unpacked and sat down by the window. As I looked at the blue-green horizon, something began stirring in me. I couldn’t name the feeling, but the need to cry settled into the back of my throat.

I looked at Heather beside me on the couch. Her blue eyes were full of tears. Not at all uncommon for her, I have to say, but still, something was going on.

We sat in silence. Neither of us understood what was happening, but we knew it was happening to both of us. After a while, I asked what was happening, hoping she could explain why I was feeling emotional too.

She shook her head. She didn’t know either.

The feeling didn’t pass. We stayed there looking at the horizon, wondering if this was some version of missing home. Did we need to live at the beach? Spend more time there? We tried to make sense of it, but nothing quite fit.

Heather remembered staring out the back patio at the water when she lived alone in New Annan. It calmed her. Anchored her.

I told her how I’d used the beach as my therapist. When my world was falling around me, it was the only place that could settle me. I’d spent so many tearful, confused moments there, trying to get unstuck. The beach always seemed to make life feel bigger than the moment I was in.

We knew we didn’t miss home. But we’d clearly missed something about being near the water. That still didn’t explain why it had hit us both so hard.

Across the Gulf was Alabama, where we got married in a UPS Store, which remains one of our funniest memories. Somewhere beyond the horizon was the Love’s Travel Stop where Purrja locked us out of the car on our way to Mexico.

We hadn’t thought about any of that when we booked the condo. We’d only wanted to get out of the house for a night. Instead, we sat looking across a body of water that connected the life we’d left, the road that brought us here, and the strange little wedding in the middle of it.

We kept staring at the water that night and again the next day. Heather had her own history with it. I had mine. Neither of us seemed able to look away.

We hoped to go back before returning the rental car, but we both got sick. The car mostly sat unused until it was time to take it back. We never got that second visit.

I still don’t know what it was. Something old had come into the room with us, and neither of us knew what to call it.