Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020 | Page 101

Hong Kong Young Writers Awards 2020
Don’t Forget the Ocean
St. Paul’s Convent School, Fung, Natalie – 16
I first met the ocean when I was eight.
She was a young mother, full of light and prosperity, and I watched on, giggling as she
swept swirls of waves pass and around me and over me and around me again, dipping me in
softly and laughing gently as I came out spluttering with all the indignance of an eight year
old. Mama and Daddy looked on fondly on the sand-covered towel, sharing a coconut drink
while Mama’s sundress fluttered softly amongst the thrifting dance of the wind, and Daddy’s
sunglasses glittered in resonance with the sun’s playful glare.
The ocean’s gentle touches on my softly burnt skin that summer lingered all throughout
the year - and eight was the start of my relationship with the ocean.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
Each summer spent in the cooling embrace of the ocean with the contrasting heat of the
sun and the sand jumping and yipping at the pitter-patter of my feet against the soft and hard
grains. The young mother I first met grew younger and younger, into a shadow of my best
friend, stifling giggles of mischiefs under each of our breaths while Mama and Daddy put on
their detective glasses and we’d dissolve and succumb under the teasing tickles.
Each summer was one where we both started each new, bright day, determined to hunt
for adventures amongst the shimmering waves, hunting for the newest home for Mr. Crabby
or gazing in wonder at the star that fell and laid in the sand, hard and soft at the same time.
Each day was a new adventure, and each year was spent waiting for the days where we’d be
diving up and down among the waves.
Then thirteen came.
And the young girl that I once knew, the loving mother that I once embraced, was long
gone without a shadow left behind for me to hold or hug or just touch to convince myself that
it wasn’t all just a feverish dream. Thirteen was when Mom held me in her trembling and frail
embrace, a harsh, white gown replacing the flickering shadow of a bright yellow sundress.
Thirteen was when Auntie brought me to the ocean one night and all I saw was a
weathered old man, howling with the raging beasts in the air, angry at the hand that he’s been
dealt at life and the aching emptiness, sealed behind a bitter old, facade. It was when I cried
and howled with the man, raging for him and at him to bring back the sweet friend I tackled
in the golden rays, the mother I sang and danced and laughed and played with.
Thirteen was when I no longer knew the ocean.
Thirteen was when everything was gone and lost.
Fourteen to fifteen to seventeen to eighteen was when everything stayed the same and
everything changed.
The past was but a fleeting thought in the rush of a current downstream, the roar of a
waterfall and the thunder of the rapids. The sun shone down on the rectangles which sucked
and sucked and slowly the sun shone through the lights and the elevators and shone through
the buildings and the sun was everywhere - even in the darkest of nights and the coldest of
winters. The wind blew and blew until the mill turned and turned and the car roared in
agreement and huffed and puffed as it raced around the city. The sun now shone through our
phones and computers and notebooks and screens and the wind blew and blew through the
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