wildscape. literary journal

Saltwater & Nectarines
by Anna Merlo

Today I laid in the sun. I’ve been trying to do more of this lately, so I spread out on a towel at Suttons Beach with my journal and AirPods and two ripe nectarines. The air was windy and warm, carrying the yelling laughter of dozens of kids in the water all the way up the shore. The sky was a pale, endless blue, streaked with hazy clouds near the horizon. I nabbed a perfect spot in the shade and settled in, watching: sun, sky, water, wind. 

I ate the nectarines. I thought about this a bit, how eating fruit on the beach is kind of the whole point, really. How sweet life is meant to be. How I deprived myself of sweetness for a long time in the name of ruthless productivity and efficiency. How fruit at the beach felt like a luxury despite being completely free. How fruit at the beach is one of the first luxuries to be stripped away when life gets busy. I thought about how many times I’ve told myself ‘no’ in the last decade, how often I missed out on beach days and nights out. How my skin had hardened into a crusty shell of regime and routine. Too busy, too far, too much to do…The other day I caught myself out of breath hanging out the laundry, tensed and rushing myself against some invisible timer. I dropped my shoulders. I took a breath. I picked up the next sock more slowly, feeling the soft fibres between my fingers. Every month, I think another crack appears in that hardened shell.

On the beach, I let the nectarine juice drip down my chin and I didn’t think about who was watching. I know in reality that nobody is. Why is it that our younger selves always feel so perceived and surveilled? My head was constantly on a swivel as a teenager. There’s so much pressure to conform, to be like everybody else, to become completely invisible - when all you want is to be seen and known.

Years ago, if I went to the beach and my legs weren’t freshly shaved, I probably wouldn’t go at all. Or maybe I’d hide underneath a towel. Claim that I wasn’t feeling well and sit alone, squinting and sweating on the shore, watching other people having fun. Always hiding. What was I worried they’d find? Who was the ‘they’ I was so afraid of? On the beach, with the taste of nectarine still in my mouth, my legs were two or three days past when I’d usually shave them. They felt stubbly and scratchy against my cotton towel. I ran my hands up and down them and smiled, feeling the fourteen-year-old inside me recoiling in disgust and anxiety in equal measure. What if they see? I assured her it was fine. I ate the other nectarine.

I realised this summer, like a lock clicking into place: I don’t care anymore. What’s the alternative? Miss out on a day by the water, sun on my skin, salt water in my hair and mouth and eyes and everywhere? It tastes like life itself. I licked my lips thinking of it. I will never be this young again. I’m as old as I’ve ever been. So I watched the red patterns behind my eyelids for a while, let my legs and arms go soft in the sunlight. I thought of honey falling in ribbons. I thought of melting candlewax. I thought of what they say about your twenty-fifth birthday, how your prefrontal cortex finishes cooking, how little things don’t matter as much anymore. I think they were right about that, whoever ‘they’ are.

Later, the waves were perfect and smooth, glittering and relentless. I was on my own in the high tide, neck deep in water just a few steps away from the shore. The salt clears the sinuses, flushing out toxins and snot and sand, leaving me clean and new and stinging in the sunshine. I could feel my cheeks smiling without me telling them to. I thought about baptisms, even though I haven’t been baptised, or even attended one. I thought about when I was a kid and I’d come inside from playing all day, how the whole house was dark while my eyes adjusted. I thought about when I was a kid and I would get the whole ocean stuck inside my head. Later, during the siesta, I’d feel the warm droplets slide out of my ear as I fell asleep on top of a damp towel, the breeze carrying mis abuelos’ Spanglish and grill smoke like a lullaby.

I floated on my back. The sun was white with heat but the water was cool. I thought about all of the versions of myself, kicking their legs out in front of them, treading water. The dozen summers we spent with our ears pressed against seashells and sand stuck in the little holes of a tinny iPhone speaker. I planted my feet in the sand, strong like the wooden jetty we bolted up and down barefoot but were never brave enough to jump off. I held hands with the nervous teenager and all the little sandy-faced, sunburnt-shouldered kids who looked exactly like me, coughing up salt water every time a big wave crashed over our heads, yelling, laughing, all the way up the shore.

about the author // Anna Merlo