The Mariana Trench is Holding Me Down
Caridad Cole
“What do you think is out there?”
“Darling, that’s a ridiculous question,” Mother answers without lowering her magazine. I try to telekinetically burn a hole through the blue eyes of the cover model. She is unphased and will live to smile for the camera another day. Three more attempts and Mother senses my frustration, dropping the magazine next to her lounge chair. Her yellow plastic heels make a scrape-crunch-scrape-crunch noise as she walks over to join me on the observation deck. She bobs her head slightly, dropping her sunglasses to her nose, and proceeds to make a big show of surveying the ocean before us.
“Well, fish, honey,” she says as she spins around to lean on the railing. “Fish are out there. And shells. Things like that. Maybe some lost wallets.”
“Lost wallets?”
“Probably a lot of lost things, actually. People tend to be extra clumsy and extra stupid on big, fancy boats.” She smiles down at me, winking at her use of an off-limits word.
Right on cue, a purple, polka dotted woman waddles toward us, neon drink splashing out of her miniature glass with every step.
“There you girls are!” she belts from a foot away. “I was wondering where you got off to. Such lovely girls you are.”
“Hello again, Marsha. Alice, you remember Ms. Marsha from shuffleboard yesterday?”
“Hello Ms. Marsha,” I greet her at bellybutton level. She leans down to snap the strap of the camera thrown over my shoulder, her sharp breath nearly making my eyes water. I smile up at her.
“Oh, enough of this Ms. Marsha. You can call me Auntie Marsha. Everyone does.” I look at Mother for permission, and she almost imperceptibly shrugs at me.
“So Marsha, getting some good sun today, I see?” Marsha’s eyes widen as her already peeling cheeks turn an even brighter shade of red. She clucks her tongue and adjusts her sun hat, clearly uncomfortable. Mother has a knack for making other women feel this way.
“Yes, well, I had no idea it would be so sunny on deck. There’s really nothing we can do… I just hope to not be fried to a crisp before Robert and I have our vow renewal photos taken.” She eyes my camera again, head clearly full of bad ideas. “Alice, sweetie, would you consider coming along and snapping some photos of the boys and me? We’ve barely taken any this entire holiday.”
I hoist my camera up, protectively. By boys, she means her two terrors of sons. They have already pulled my hair, made fun of my brand-new jellies, and threatened to throw me overboard at least four times since port.
“Um, Marsha, if you don’t mind, I think Alice is a bit tired right now. Too much sun, you know? Maybe she can find you later, before dinner?”
“Okay, then.” Marsha sounds displeased, but turns on her worn-down heel and finally leaves us alone. When she is out of earshot, Mother releases a high-pitched cackle.
“Too much son, get it?” The corners of her eyes wrinkle in glee. “We don’t like those boys, do we?”
“No, we don’t!” I join her laughter. She tries to pull me back to the lounge chairs, but I resist.
“Wait, wait. Let’s look. What else is out there?” I ask her.
“Darling, I’ve already told you. Little fish, big fish.”
“Nothing else?”
“Like what?”
“Mermaids?” I lift my camera to my face and look through the viewfinder, for something to prove to those dumb boys.
“Mermaids? Maybe. But if there were, I’m sure they’ve gone extinct by now. Look at all the garbage people dump in there.” She points to a plastic plate knocking against the side of the ship. I stare at it as she gives me a knowing look.
“Is that what they were teasing you about?”
“Yes. They think I’m too old for stories like that.” I pick my camera back up and aim it at Mother, her knitted blue halter top blending in with the skies and the sea. She flashes her signature smile, hand on hip, never missing a beat.
“I bet they just don’t know any good ones. Sad, really,” she mumbles as she brushes my bangs from my forehead.
“If I were a mermaid, I would lure them to the depths of the ocean.”
“Alice Lucy Liddell, you can barely swim.”
“That’s just because I haven’t really tried.”
“Well, when we get to the Caribbean, you can show me what you’ve got, okay? Then we can start planning their demise.”
I finally let her take me away from the railing. When she silently returns to her magazine, I fish out a half-completed rainbow colored bracelet, slipping it around my big toe to continue weaving. Left, right, under, over, it needs to be perfect to give to Mother as our official friendship bracelet. I want to remember this cruise, this summer that she finally let me tag along on one of her adventures. Even though I’ve made eight before for my closest friends, I have trouble keeping the long strings in place. They don’t stay centered along my leg and I finally give up after a few minutes of yanking. Stuffing the bracelet back into my shorts pocket, I notice that Mother has stopped reading. She gazes past me to her left, hypnotized by something in the distance.
At first, it seems like the other side of the ship is bathed in beautiful sunlight, the water reflecting off the floorboards and casting dreamy shadows on the walls. Then I notice the people slipping and sliding side to side, grabbing chairs only to drag them across to the railing, grabbing the railing only to lose their footing right away. The floor is slick with water. More than slick, it’s drenched. Deep. And rising.
“Mother?” I whisper as I turn around. She’s looking at me now, and she takes my hand. It makes me uncomfortable.
“Hold your breath, darling.”
In the next moment, I’m freezing cold, the ocean swallowing me whole. I puff out my cheeks and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the rollercoaster to end. I lose track of Mother’s hand as a wave catapults me into the air. I arch my back and shoot upward, and for a few moments I hover above the water. I look out to the faraway shoreline, and miles beyond that, my home. It crosses my mind to grab my camera and use it like binoculars, but I don’t have it anymore, and there isn’t time before my body gives in and curves, plunging me back into the sea.
Under the water, my eyes struggle to adjust. They dart around, looking for signs of anything, but a blue tint blankets it all. Camouflage. Mother was right: big fish, little fish. But I know somewhere there must also be sharks, and everything in between. I fear any movement will catch their attention. My hands instinctively try to grab ahold of the surface underneath me, but the sand cannot be grasped. It’s too far away, and the water isn’t solid enough. So I stay still and hope my land legs don’t betray me. I briefly surface to gasp for air, and I can’t see my own legs underneath me. I wonder how far away I am from the Mariana Trench. I wonder how far away I am from Mother. I dive back under to search, and I feel myself becoming lightheaded from holding my breath. Time is fighting the currents; is it day or is it night? Above me – any sign of light being a possible indicator – is only dark blue. Through the surface of the sea, everything is dark blue. I reach up and flatten my hand against it, pushing each fingertip forward to feel the cool air. I wonder if I could fall asleep here, in an underwater chamber.
And then, something new appears in front of me. It stares straight into my eyes, and I think it can see all of me with one look. Unblinking, I wonder what the consequences would be if I were to look away. I allow my eyes to drift to my left, so slowly it’d be barely noticeable. It has a long, colorful tail that disappears into the void behind it. The eyes are still aimed my way, questioning me, but I don’t have an answer. I open my mouth to yell, and through the hundreds of tiny bubbles my muffled sound makes, I see it dart away.
All at once, nothing more is keeping me grounded. I want to find the edge of the water. I need to find air. The ocean’s grip is tightening faster than I can wade, and at the same time, an angry force is pulling my limp body into the light. In my peripheral vision, I can see my own limbs flailing. I can’t seem to control them anymore. Do I really know how to swim or am I just dragging myself along? The water is rushing in my ears, and I fight to keep my eyes open. I feel something moving alongside me, matching my speed. It makes no effort to conceal itself. The entire form must be at least twice my size. With incredible effort, I bend my neck to get a better look, but I can’t see anything else among the bubbles strangling my body. So instead, I brace for impact. A familiar coolness licks my skin, and I know I’ve made it to air once again.
I’m floating in the middle of the ocean, completely alone. Waiting for the tides to take me over doesn’t make sense, so I start swimming. Doggy paddle, frog, butterfly, I try everything. I swim under the beating sun, completely exposed. My throat feels dry, but I know not to drink seawater. My skin is pruning, and my face is flaking. Gradient shades of blue bleed together; the scenery never changes, and the sun never budges. Ceaselessly I float, watching a single cloud. It doesn’t look like anything I recognize, until something moves behind it. A distant helicopter fishes for survivors. It dips a long ladder into the wreckage soup and pulls out a tiny human, and then another, and another. I watch them scramble up the ropes and imagine them releasing salty tears of joy. The last salt they’ll likely want to taste for a long time. I brush my fingers under my own eyes before taking off in their direction. Pushing myself harder than I ever have, I listen to the smooth thrum of the propellors. A minute later, the ladder is reeled in, and off they go. A dragonfly dives into my eyeline, and next to the shrinking helicopter, they could be twins. The dragonfly circles meters above my head, then swoops down again, taunting me. It beckons me to follow it to the stars. It doesn’t understand why I can’t fly, and I don’t understand either. When I don’t rise up to join it, it leaves for good. Below, I feel the eyes still watching me.
It hurts to inhale and exhale. My lungs are collapsing between my cracking ribs. I’m sinking back into the black and there’s no one to pull me out. And when I can no longer see the sun over the tip of my nose, I feel relief. My senses are heightened, and my torso happily expands. A path is cleared for me to fall down, although I’m not falling. I’m gently floating into bliss.
They guide me to the ocean floor. Everything is easier here. I hadn’t realized how poisonous the northern air was until now. Has breathing always been this arduous? When did sucking in water become second nature? Several moments pass before I give attention to the fact that I’m still being watched, always being watched. They’re giving me some sort of direction, guiding me to consume more. More water and I may live a little longer. I gulp it down greedily until I feel something.
I feel myself changing.
I can see everything now. No black or blue tint. I look down at my hands and notice the impossibly wrinkled state of my fingertips. I rub them together and find that they are almost sticky. I run them along my abdomen – the muscles much stronger – and up to my brittle hair. A girl about my age breaks through the mass of bodies surrounding me, clutching something sacred to her side. It’s an ornate mirror, which she slowly brings up to my face. I see myself, my pupils large and wild, irises shining with flecks of purple and gold. And I see them, floating behind me. Together, we are gorgeous, ethereal, ancient.
The reflection blurs as the girl takes the mirror away. She silently asks me the question again, but I tell her no. With smiles, we say goodbye.
I glide along a school of fish, with a requested drop off. When we are close enough, I swim up and lift my eyes just above the surface. My legs are stiff, and I can’t move my toes at all. But less than a kilometer away, something magnificent floats. An island. A paradise. Salvation. And then my arms are moving faster than they ever have. They’re flying, overcompensating, threatening to rip out of their sockets. I shut my eyes so tight I see stars. When I’m at the shallow end, I begin crying out and gesticulating wildly. A crowd turns toward me, confusion on their faces. One of them stares directly at my mouth as if trying to read my lips. Surely, they must be able to hear me from this distance. I pray they can still understand me. For a second, I stop treading water and wonder if I should just go back.
“Hey! We have another one over here! A girl!” A man in a tattered collared shirt suddenly shouts. More people gather around the edge of the island to see the commotion.
Mother pushes through the mass, mascara running down her face. She jumps ankle deep into the water, clumsily lowering herself down to my eye level. We hold eye contact, and I think I see something flicker across her face. I hesitate, but then her eyes soften.
“How on Earth did you get here?” she cries out, dragging me from the water and onto her lap. The seaweed wrapped around my waist releases me and I gasp, finding the salty sweet air painful like sewing needles dripping down my esophagus. She rubs my face over and over, her dry hands stuttering across my cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe.”
There’s still a hint of a laugh in the wrinkles around her eyes. I reach up to feel them and she wraps her fingers around my hand to lead me ashore. I feel my knees cracking and yawning as they make contact with the solid sand. My thighs and calves keep finding each other, knocking together like magnets, my ankles fighting not to fuse down to my big toes. I test my balance by bending over to peel a thin, reflective scale from the top of my foot, and toss it behind me into the ocean. Mother looks at me curiously, before engulfing me into a hug. As the seascape disappears from my line of sight and the sun welcomes my dilated pupils like an old friend, I close my eyes.
“I swam, Mother. I swam home.”
Caridad Cole is a speculative writer and filmmaker who has appeared in BarBar, The Taborian, Vocivia Magazine, Coffin Bell, The Worlds Within, The Garden-Variety Grimoire Anthology (The Word’s Faire Press, 2024), and The EastOver Anthology of Rural Stories, Volume II: Writers of Color (EastOver Press, 2023), among others. She is a 2025 Pushcart Prize nominee and her work in magical realism earned her three grants by Words for Charity in 2018. Her mind is in the treetops, her body is in Los Angeles, and her soul is at the bottom of the sea. Pin her down at caridadcole.com or on Instagram @astrocari.