Last Swim in Goa

With Nightcafe AI

“We'll be back in November”, we told Jeethu, our friend from Assam. He’s been working at the Silver Sands shack every winter for the last 16 years. Last  night, we asked him to show us photographs of his family. Bandana, his wife, a bright red tilak on her forehead, and his four year old son, playing at ploughing the fields.

Five minutes later, he was back at our table, proffering the screen of his phone.

“A video?”, Premi asked. 

“Hello bolo, Baba”, Jeethu smiled at his son, his eyes crinkling with pride. We waved, from Goa to Assam.

The phone is the primary medium through which people engage with the beach, I was telling Premi the other day. Tourists emerge from their hotels and stand in the shallows, posing for the camera. Few go in more than ankle-deep. This morning, I had just wriggled out of my sweaty running shirt, when I saw an eleven year-old urging her mother and little sister to smile for a photograph.

 “Join them”, I said, and reached for her phone. I asked them to turn their faces into the early light of the sun. 

“Three pretty girls”, Premi remarked. The slim, young mother looked at the screen and exclaimed “Wow, lovely photo”. 

“Now, hold my hands”, I told Urvi and Ira, and walked them, a step at a time, into the water.

 “Wow”, Urvi said, as the water lapped against her calves.

“Not scared?”, I asked Ira, the little one. 

No - she shook her head. We turned around to face their mother, who was clicking away, a wide smile on her face, now joined by the father, who gave us a thumbs up.

I walked them back, and asked Urvi if she would like to go in a little further. She nodded with excitement. I held her under her shoulders, and we waded back in, till the waves broke up to the bottom of her pink shorts. Don't worry if they get wet.

“Now you see that wave - I'll count to three, and on three, jump.” I held her tighter, and against my arms, I could feel her heart pumping like a steam engine. 

“One, two, and three”, she flexed her skinny legs, and I lifted her over the wave.

“Wow!”

“Another one, two, and…three.”

By the third wave, her heart had slowed, and when I bent to look down at her face, her eyes were shining.

“You swim every day, Uncle?”

I nodded, while my being filled with the thought that this was going to be my last swim in a long time.

I spat into my swimming goggles to clear the fog, scrubbed them with my index finger, and launched into the cool, clear water, the ripples of sand scrolling away till they faded into the depth.

Soft the water, soft my wrist as it dropped back in, gentle the swell, gentle the roll of my torso as it turned with each stroke. 

I could roll like this for a long time, but there was a flight to catch. I turned back, and as the beach neared, stroked longer, faster, for the joy of the pull, for the rush of oxygen-rich blood to my shoulders, for the relish of knowing I can. Over my right shoulder, a slash of white flashed in the sun, then disappeared as the swell ebbed and I fell into a trough. A few strokes later, it flashed again, and I paused to take it in. A tourist boat, its engine cut off, the pilot scanning the water, the sun reflecting from his blue shades. I turned on my back, and waved, to register my presence, just in case they got under power again.

I sprinted for the shore, and as I stood in the shallows, a line of people addressed the water - with their phones.

“Good swim, Sir” said Jeethu, and in the same breath -”Dolphins!”. 

Two dolphins tumbled just off the beach, their dorsal fins tracing lazy arcs in the shallow green waters through which I had just stroked. Yes, we’ll be back, my heart screamed out to them. 

Thank you for that benediction, oh gentle beings.

And for Urvi and Ira, my fervent blessing that the waters of the world bring you the joy I have known.