As of 2023, nobody has conceptions of reality that they can’t have at their fingertips. In particular, when the sun sets. When the tide is high. Or, where they last saw their first born child. So, you can imagine what a family vacation can look like when you’re on a tropical island with no cellular service. But hey, at least you’re on an island. The best beaches of Bermuda can be hidden and have little to no people if you get there early enough. Morning is when people tend to lie on the beach and bathe in the blistering sun, before getting in the lukewarm teal water. The tide tends to be inconsistent, so you’re really just hoping for the best.

My mom lays face down next to me on her towel as my little brother makes catastrophic sand castles. To my right, the tall rocks that appear to form a thin wall draw me in. A spark of curiosity flows over me. I’ll be coming here for a few days, so waiting doesn’t make sense. The wind seems to push me over as I stand up, blowing sand into my dry mouth. I cautiously step along the side of the wall, my bare feet being nearly impaled by the wet and jagged rocks on the shoreline. I hold onto the edge, exceedingly careful not to fall back into the water. As my head peeks around the side, I see the sand is flat and dry. The tide must have risen overnight, and that layer of sand dried with the sun's arrival. The enclosed beach seems to rise higher than the empire state building. A pelican flies by. With a long sailor's rope in its mouth, it makes a mark on the perfectly bare sand as it drops its feces. Ew.

The sand is cold and damp as it presses against my bathing suit bottoms. The waves are harsher over here, and their startling crash echoes off of the serrated walls behind. The stench of dead crabs and fish overwhelm the enclosed space, though there’s nothing to show for it. You know, on an island, someone who can’t swim well should probably be scared. The thought sends shivers down my body. My mom doesn’t know I came over here. My brother doesn’t care where I could’ve gone. As my mind flips through the few possibilities of how this could go, I notice the tide has risen. Shoot.

  I can see the parrotfish getting closer to the shore. Heavy clouds are collecting overhead. I hear a loud but distant siren go off, signifying rising tides to everyone on the beaches. I wait for someone to come looking for me as the water hits my dry ankles. Then my sandy knees. Cold drops hit my face from the dark grey above. Still, nobody is coming. My breathing is getting heavier, and my only concern is drowning. I never bothered to learn how to swim. Living in Nebraska doesn’t help that problem either. Too far from any coastal point, lake, and the weather is way too bipolar to have pools. 

The water gets higher, louder, and rougher by every minute. Thinking does nothing but waste time. I can fight this, or I can drown. How awful would that be? All red and bright on CNN: “15 year old girl drowns on the Bermuda beach due to the inconsistent tides”. I’m not that pathetic. I look around for any help, any tools, any openings that could draw my anxiety to a close. Nothing. Anything that could’ve saved me is washed away now. The only living source of help is that stupid pelican. Remembering it flying over me, just waiting to relieve itself of its breakfast. That rope must’ve been for its nes- oh my god. THE ROPE. 

My head spins in any visible direction faster than a gunshot. There. The bird's tree hung from a peculiar rock, six feet above me. The water splashes against my waist, rushing goosebumps along my torso as I tread left to the wall. As I stretch my arm to the first ledge in reach, the cold and cutting stone is a savior like no other. My feet, bottoms covered in pebbles, rise to the last ledge I can find. I pace myself. One. Two. Three. Using all the push my legs can handle, I lunge towards the tree, latching onto its thin horizontal trunk. The wobble of the weak tree pushes me forward, ultimately grabbing the bowl-shaped wound-up rope for balance. I yank it, tiny feathers flying away as I do so. My legs swing to either side of  the trunk, facing the wall I would forever resent. A sharp rock nearly at the top sticks out perfectly a few feet above, as if the world were giving me a second chance. I tie the rope into a loop, making a perfect lasso. The toss, taking more tries than thought out, tires my cold and hardened joints.

The loop snags on the point of the rock, hanging ever so ominously. I slide the rope forward, tightening the lasso. Good enough. I prop my feet vertically to the wall, as to walk up. Pulling my weight up like this is the only way I can make it work, but god is it tiring. Holding on to the rope, stepping my right foot, then my left, one going slightly higher than the other. 

Just when my eyes spot the soft green grass, my foot flattens it, levering my body up to the surface. I let the wind push my back to the pillowy ground, and the wind wipe the sprinkles of water off my face. My first deep inhalation suppresses my anxiety. 

I’m never stepping foot in any body of water again.