ArcaMax

Last year, the waves lapping on the beach convinced a mountain girl that the sea has its own charms. This year, the waves reminded me that parts of me that I feared had sailed away were actually just in murky depths, waiting to be stirred up and brought forward by the tides of change.

Our second trip to Puerto Penasco got a bit of an upgrade, splurging on the middle-class dream of a resort, where the trips become slightly more curated, slightly more catered to the economy we represent, even as we bring new beach towels budgeted for the trip in free totes that magically apparate in a middle-class life.

As my kids went through about $50 worth of mangos with Tajin and chamoy, taking breaks under the shade I snagged and guarded, vendors mentioned that the weekend wasn't very busy, likely because of Father's Day. As we stayed past the weekend, I watched the drop of tourists like the beach at low tide. Whereas before I had worried about beating other people to the shade-covered seating, on weekdays I had my pick, and the vendors stopped soliciting as they recognized me from previous nos and sat somewhat dejected on their carts.

Turns out that even with the lulling shushing of the waves, the mom paranoia doesn't understand "taking a vacation." I spent some of the time on the beach watching my children in the waves and using all the willpower to push, like a meditation, the intrusive thoughts away. I'd build sandcastles of scenarios and moats of solutions. Surely, we could drive to the clinic if a jellyfish stung them. I've paid for hours of swim lessons; surely they'd last long enough to have a jetskier race to them if the sea pulled them in.

Surely.

I will say that the bucket of margarita, followed quickly by very woody tequila shots that, in theory, were to be added to the bucket but somehow didn't make it there, helped combat the intrusive thoughts; others started in. Ones that follow how I observe people, the mahogany color of a vendor's hand gripping a jewelry box. The mummification of those who worked on the beach, with long sleeves, large hats, and masks, with only their eyes uncovered. The bright reds on the thighs and shoulders of people who faced the ocean. How each side interacted with the other, with themselves.

The location of birth might make us, but it shouldn't limit us. But it does.

One afternoon, the heat overcame me all at once, and with a tip of the hat to my husband and kids, I wandered back to the hotel room, reminded that in doses I can exist in the desert, that the slather of sunscreen works until the heat penetrates enough to feel like you can fry an eye on your head.

One more stray intruding thought as I sat on the fold-out couch for the kids and had the heat disperse with the ceiling fan. I felt a little bit more like me for a change. "They" may be right. It really is that damn phone. But, for me, replace phone with "job."

I think that's what the ocean handed back to me this year.

It wasn't some grand revelation, but a reminder that the parts of me I thought had disappeared hadn't gone anywhere. They'd simply been buried beneath the constant tide of meetings, emails, criticism, expectations, and the quiet pressure of carrying a job that people mistake for a personality.

The sea doesn't stop being the sea because someone throws rocks into it. It absorbs them, shifts around them, and keeps breathing in and out on its own rhythm.

I don't know that I'll ever completely separate myself from my work. But sitting under a ceiling fan in a hotel room, watching the heat finally leave my body, I remembered there is still a version of me from before. The one who notices, the one who wonders about the lives hidden, the one who fights paranoia to give her kids memories, the one who writes to not forget that the job may shape my days, but it doesn't get to decide the tides.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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