One memory stands out from the others. I'm not even ten years old and I'm playing on the beach at my grandparents' house; a beach you might know better as Pointe-Basse. A pile of rocks in the water reminds me of an elephant, that's what we called it. I can't find proof, but I'm sure I've seen puffins there before, those fake parrots that look like a penguin wearing a colorful mask and eyeliner.
At the foot of the elephant, we would discover the treasures of the shore exposed by the low tide. Crabs, crayfish (which were actually sand shrimp, but the name we called them as children has always stuck with me), starfish, various mollusks, slippery seaweeds, and sticky polyps, which to us seemed disgusting yet fascinating, hidden under the rocks.
I've always kept a photograph from that time, where a young me plays on the beach under the shadow of the ephemeral sculpture. In the picture, with my feet and hands in the water, I'm not looking at the camera but at the life bustling beneath me, barely hidden.
I recognize an interest that has always inhabited and guided me. These underwater forests that seem to come from a science fiction world, a small oasis of life and colors. To explore them, I imagined myself being shrunk down to the size of a crayfish. Sometimes I imagined riding a crab, other times hugging little fish or making dresses, capes, and blankets from seaweed.
I especially remember the disappointment I felt the following year when, descending to the beach for the first time of the season, I saw that the elephant had collapsed. On that beach, I never saw puffins again. To console myself, I told myself that the jumble of rocks now offered a choice habitat for the shoreline inhabitants.
These memories replay in my mind almost twenty years later, as I paddle above the now submerged rocks covered in seaweed.
Now a biology student, I can better distinguish and name them compared to when I was a child. Among them, I think I can recognize fucus, ascophyllum, palmated sea fingers, and Irish moss, to name just a few.
It's barely windy today, which is rare in Les Îles, and the sea is calm, allowing for a full appreciation of its richness. On the coast, shorebirds are also enjoying the beautiful day.
I place my paddle between my thighs, lie back on my kayak, and close my eyes, letting my hands dip into the water. It seems that no matter how many years pass or the path I take, both my body and mind, like the waves, always return to the shore, where the smell of rotting seaweed and eelgrass—a stench I have learned to love—fills my lungs.
The sound of the surf and the cacophonous calls of seabirds lull me. I open my eyes and look to my right when I hear a noise: a seal is watching me curiously from a few meters away. Our surprise is mutual, and it gracefully dives back into the water.
I would give a lot to see the coastline from its perspective and glide effortlessly among the kelp with the fish, surfacing to observe the birds accustomed to my presence. Unlike me, a visitor, the marine mammal can truly call the coast its home.
I rise and paddle towards the shore. After securing the nautical equipment, I plan to get on all fours in the water, just like in the photograph. I want to memorize the water's edge and the rocks that made up the elephant as they are now, knowing that each day the landscape will change a little more, different from what I once knew, today as different from what was captured in the photograph. With my feet and hands in the shallow sea, perhaps I can still imagine myself as one of its small inhabitants.
