The Bluest Sea

On Self, Landscape, and Motherhood

I will always remember the first time I saw the Caribbean Sea. Earlier that summer I had travelled to a small village in the Mayan region of southeastern Mexico to see a friend. She was conducting ethnographic work there because their sustainable logging practices had become an example in the region. We met the local academic in sustainable practices and visited the town’s small council where decisions were made.

After a few days, when I saw that my friend was doing well on her own, I grabbed my backpack, waved goodbye and took a bus to a nearby town all the locals insisted I had to see. After a few hours I arrived at my destination. The bus parked near the sea, and since I had never seen the Caribbean Sea, I decided not to wait any longer and walked a few meters to meet it, hiking boots and all.

The place was so beautiful it was almost a shock. My mind immediately became silent, no more narrator, no narrative, no inner thoughts or the formation of abstract ideas. Just the bluest sea. It was the first time I had such an experience. The best way to describe it is like someone had pressed a button that turned my mind off. Complete silence.

I spent the following months in the open sea, kayaking, snorkeling, diving, floating in that never-ending blue. I was on my own for most of the trip. I swam with whales, colorful fish, over delicate reefs…

Many years later I found myself living in Leiden with my Dutch partner, pregnant, and with an ongoing global pandemic. My son was born in the summer of 2020, so most of my pregnancy unfolded during the strictest lockdowns. But we didn’t mind. At the time I worked at the local university, and my partner started to work from home.

Before the pandemic, we hardly used our car, so after the lockdowns began, we found the perfect excuse to phase it out. After our precious baby arrived, we bought an e-bakfiets. An e-bakfiets is a type of electrical cargo bike the Dutch use to transport children.

We were very happy with our decision, which was only possible because of the way the Dutch cities are arranged and all the mobility options. Thanks to the ubiquitous bicycle paths we could cycle everywhere, doctor’s appointments, parks, playdates with friends.

I had never felt more healthy and full of energy. After the first tiring months that accompany a newborn, I gradually became more and more energetic. I felt like I was being carried by the sunlight, embraced by the warm wind. The changing weather kept me company, more palpable as I rode the bike with my little boy so close to me. I felt connected to the land, the wind, the water. I recognized again some moments of that blue sea silence, and took refuge in those moments.

Since my son was born I have taken him out for a walk in nature almost every day of his life. I have orchestrated a close relationship between his mind, his body and the natural environment. I always remind him of the wind when we hear tree leaves, I tell him the weather directly affects us just like the plants. Everything is water, and water is constant motion. He loves the moon and the stars, the beach and the sea, looking at the sky and running barefoot on the grass. We listen and distinguish the different songs of birds, just like my aunt once taught me. He knows we are nature.

During that trip to the Caribbean I saw a whale with her baby, I swam near them, the mother herself was an island of life. All sorts of small fish and creatures were swimming around her, feeding off her, or even attached to her body. I am now her, with my little boy swirling around me, sometimes I call him my little satellite.

He’ll grow so soon, and he’ll be independent and strong. I know because he is so much like me, and that likeness will take him away one day. I need to prepare him to listen to the wind, navigate the changing seasons, and forget himself in the sea. Whatever the future might bring.