beach-sea-salt-ocean

ARLYN OF THE OCEAN: Pollution killed my friend

Last updated: January 26th, 2019

My childhood summers were filled with the salty air and seashells of the Gulf, my favourite place to relax and play. I vividly remember the cold ocean water splashing at my ankles and the taste of the popsicles we ate between bouts of play. I collected hundreds of seashells and made magnificent sand castles, dug holes as deep as I was tall and even caught a few fish. What I remember most of all, though, was Arlyn.

The first summer I spent with my aunt was an entirely new experience; I had never seen the beach or played in salt water before. She coaxed me gently towards the water, armed with an array of floaties and toys. I followed her cautiously, reassured by her claims that I wasn’t meaty enough to interest any of the ocean’s monsters. I figured she had to be right; I weighed next to nothing as a scrawny, awkward ten-year-old. Before I knew it, I was bobbing up and down in the waves and having the time of my life.

It wasn’t until the second summer, when I eagerly rushed back to the beach that I had longed for all year, that I met Arlyn. Though my aunt’s beach wasn’t private, it didn’t gather much attention. An algae covered wall of rocks separated the small section from the larger strip of beach where the pier and the boats were. Most favoured the longer strip, so the small beach behind my aunt’s house was practically all mine for the summer. For the first few days, my aunt watched me carefully to be sure I didn’t drown or get dragged away by any toothy water-dwellers. She soon came to trust that I could take care of myself, and only checked on me ever hour or so.

One day, a Tuesday I believe, my aunt had just come to deliver a plate of watermelon and make sure I was still breathing. I assured her that I was fine and thanked her for the snack, then grabbed my dinosaur towel to wipe myself dry. Just a few seconds after I heard her screen door creak and slam shut, a shuffling noise near the rocks caught my attention. I whipped my towel around to hide my body and stared wide eyed at the source of the noise: a boy, about ten years of age.

His wide eyes were exactly the color of the cold blue ocean; inviting and playful as the waves could be. The disheveled mop of wavy hair on his head was the color of the gritty sand between our toes. His skin was a golden color, no doubt from excessive sunshine, and his swimming shorts were seaweed green. Around his neck, he wore a twined necklace with the most incredible sea shells I had ever spied; my collection looked absolutely ruddy in comparison. I remember that I almost laughed when I took in his appearance, thinking that if a battle was ever to be fought on the beach, the army might do well to take a lesson in camouflage from this boy.

Assuming he was just a local boy that had found my little spot of beach, I called out, “Hello,” and gave him my best smile, hoping my missing front tooth wasn’t to much of a put-off. He replied with his own hello and walked towards me, smiling with a mouthful of teeth. When he got close enough, he plopped down in the sand and stared up at me.

“You visited last year too, right?”

Young and eager to make a friend, I grabbed the plate of watermelon and sat down, putting it between us and taking a piece. “Yup. My aunt lives in that house there and I visit her for the summers.” I jabbed a finger back at my aunt’s house and took a bite of the fruit, embarrassed by all the juice that dripped down my face. I wiped it off with the back of my hand and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I live here,” he said, taking a piece of melon. “Want to be friends?”

It was a simple as that: from then on, Arlyn and I were inseparable. We played together every day that summer, splashing about in the waves and building monstrous castles. We made up all sorts of games and silly childish fantasies, never running out of things to do. I thought it odd that he never seemed to leave the beach; he was there when I got up in the morning and remained after I left for dinner and bed. I figured he lived nearby, but he never told me when I asked him. The magic of childhood, though, is that things like that don’t matter an awful lot. What mattered was the fun we had and the memories we made. Alas, the long summer eventually came to an end, much to our dismay, and we parted ways until the next.

Each of the next summers was the same. We played and played, our imaginations fueling us with endless possibilities. I lost all my baby teeth and got a whole new set, my hair grew and grew until we had to braid it to keep it out of the way, and I finally started to grow into my feet. My knobby limbs started to make more sense, my appetite tripled, and the baby fat on my face started to disappear. Despite all the time that passed and all the growing I did, Arlyn never seemed to change much. He never grew an inch, never lost a tooth, and his cheeks stayed chubby. Not knowing any better, I assumed boys just grew differently and left it alone.

The summers flew by. We ate popsicles and swam until we couldn’t lift our arms. We collected shells and chased fish, filled buckets with crabs and tried to find the biggest sand dollars in the ocean. We saved beached starfish, made sand angels, and even had a few late-night campfires. My summers with Arlyn were absolutely the best. He was always there and we always had fun. He was always smiling and eager to play, and he was ever enthusiastic about the ocean and its many creatures. He was my best friend and there was no better time than time spent with him.

In the summer of 2010, I returned to my aunt’s house. I couldn’t contain my excitement and hardly even remembered to greet my aunt before I flew down the steps and to the beach. Arlyn, as always, was there waiting for me. I jumped on him and hugged him and went on and on about how much I had missed him. He did the same, wrapping his arms tightly around me and squeezing me until I thought I might suffocate. When I let go, I looked him over and laughed at him. “You still haven’t grown! You’re going to be stuck that way forever!”

He laughed back, saying that he had always been like this. I rolled my eyes and started to tell him about my awfully boring year back at home. As I talked, I began to notice things. His sandy hair had darkened a bit, and now had streaks of black. His brilliant blue eyes seemed just a shade duller. Though his body didn’t look a day older, his expression showed age. He looked tired; something I had never actually seen on him. I stopped my monologue and asked if he felt OK.

He frowned. “I think I’m a bit sick,” he admitted, sighing and pushing a dark strand of hair out of his eyes. He noticed my worried expression and quickly reassured me, “I’ll be OK though, don’t worry! Remember two summers ago when you got the flu? You got better from that. I’ll get better from this.” His usual high spirits returned for the day and I let him convince me that he was fine. I wanted to believe it.

As the days passed, we played as usual and had just as much fun as ever. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that he seemed a bit slower. He developed a small cough that quickly progressed to a full-on hacking, but despite all my pleading he wouldn’t let my aunt take him to the doctor. “I’m fine,” he would say. “Don’t worry.”

The water wasn’t as nice that summer. My aunt told me of an oil spill that had happened the month before. She said the oil was in the ocean. It was killing the creatures of the underwater world that Arlyn loved more than anything.

The weeks passed and Arlyn didn’t always show up for our play dates. When he did come to the beach, he wouldn’t tell me where he had been. He would apologize over and over, but never said more than that. The dark streaks in his hair multiplied. His eyes clouded. His skin paled. He coughed and he coughed and he coughed.

One day, Arlyn didn’t show up at all. I was mad at him for ditching me, but worried about his health. I was sad that we couldn’t play like we used to. I sat on the beach and stared at the water for hours, hoping that his sandy hair and bright eyes would pop up over the wall of rocks and we would jump into the water and dance and play. As I gazed at the rocks, I noticed something black and lumpy wash up nearby. The water grabbed at it and pulled at it, but it clung desperately to the beach.

My heart pounded furiously as I stood, staring wide eyed at the muck-covered lump. Stepping slowly and carefully, I made my way to the water’s edge and knelt down. Lying in the sand, covered in slick, black oil, was Arlyn’s shell-necklace.

I knew he was the ocean. I knew he was dead.

[su_panel background=”#f2f2f2″ color=”#000000″ border=”0px none #ffffff” shadow=”0px 0px 0px #ffffff”]Kit Warner is a nineteen-year-old writer and art enthusiast, eager to explore all that is artistic and inspire people with her works. She is currently working on a novel titled Kitaru, and has written many short stories and poems. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time drawing, crafting, reading, and learning the violin.

Image: Blue Summer beach house via Shutterstock