Every time we went to a beach when I was young, my mum would make sure she touched the ocean. She would walk up to the water’s edge in her sandals and crouch down, extending her hand just enough to get her fingertips wet. This was a ritual I saw her perform throughout my childhood, all over the world, and it’s one of the few traditions I’ve taken with me into adulthood.

Now, I also touch the sea whenever I’m able to. I like the wave rushing over my outstretched hand, water swirling between my fingers. It doesn’t feel of anything. It’s just water. But it still carries a weight with it. It’s my connection to our world, to nature, to my heritage. It’s a connection to my mum and our weird family and all the sunshine that used to drench us. It’s a connection to her own travels, to all the beaches she’s been to - not just with me, but long before me, in countries that have since been changed forever, in my short lifetime alone.

The ocean has always had a major presence in my life. Since childhood, I’ve been simultaneously terrified and fascinated by the sea. The ocean is powerful and relentless and unforgiving. It owes us nothing. Proximity to the sea always comes with some element of risk, whether it’s the natural erosion of the land supporting your house, or the pull of a wave that’s too strong, or the bite of hidden creatures with teeth or stingers. When people are hurt by the sea, it can feel personal - but it’s just nature. We’re just part of a big swirl of violence and beauty and chaos.

The ocean always makes me feel insignificant, and it always reminds me that being important isn’t the reason we keep breathing. The sea is beautiful and it’s mysterious and it seems to go on forever, deeper and darker. I grew up learning about the Bermuda Triangle and hearing pirate stories and tales of people lost at sea. The ocean isn’t just storms and jellyfish, it’s weird deep-sea creatures that don’t make sense and it’s crystal-clear waters that sparkle in the sun and it’s magic. The ocean contains the same power that runs through all of us. That power is primal. It’s nature. Everything else is just arbitrary.

This weekend, I stood on a pebble-filled beach and I touched the sea in the dark, stars overhead. The day before, I stood crying and waving and yelling in front of Yarl’s Wood Detention Centre, a cage in masquerade, designed to dehumanise and isolate black and brown people who’ve come to this country. I’ve been burning out recently, not just with work and projects, but with my emotions too. Between injustice and mood disorder, it’s hard to feel anything but despair sometimes.

On Brighton beach, I tried to recognise constellations above, and I watched the waves build and crash, build and crash. The water rushed over my hand, empty, transient, just like me. I found a stone, something to hold onto. The ocean is my connection to my own history, to my own roots. The ocean’s just like them, in fact: impermanent and ancient. It doesn’t stop. Every beach holds the memory of each beach I’ve been to since childhood. Here I remember where I’ve been and who I’ve been. And even though it would be so easy to walk into the ocean, into the dark, to lose myself, I know to keep moving.

The sea calms me, because it makes me feel small. Some people feel anxious when they remember how absolutely tiny we are, in the grand scheme of things. But that knowledge grounds me. In truth, none of it fucking matters. That’s what nature tells me, and it’s what helps me to heal. It takes some of the pressure off. I don’t always have to worry about whether I’m doing enough or if my existence will have any lasting impact on our shitty, fucked-up world. It’s OK just to feel, and to find meaning in our own ways. For me, that’s love and compassion and fighting even when my teeth are bloodied and my heart is broken.

The ocean doesn’t stop. It’s always shifting, always in turmoil, and it can be destructive and it can be nurturing. The sea helps me to accept these unsafe parts of myself. The parts I still turn to when I’m hurt or angry or alone, when I despair. Moving and shifting and roiling and furious and caring. We all have deep waters of our own.
This weekend, I touched the sea in the dark and I remembered watching my mum touch the blue sea in Fujairah and I remembered the dead dog on Clifton Beach and I remembered the grey skies and grey sand in Bournemouth. I know I am small and I am insignificant but I keep trying and I keep fighting because I care. It’s all we have. It’s all we need.

Heavy Machinery is written by Zainabb Hull and powered by seaside chips and solidarity.

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