Quiet Fathoms

Many were the nights I was lulled to sleep by the sounds of crashing waves and air whipping over the pearly sands beyond my bedroom window. Many, also, were the days that, unlike my elder sister, I refused to join my father on his daily fishing trips; even for all the tranquility it offered me—gazing out across the whitecaps from the comfortable safety of the shore—I was still deathly afraid of the sea.

Such a contradiction was unbecoming a daughter of Oʻahu. That was what my mother told me time and again, as I helped clean our humble bungalow or scale and gut the fish my sister and my father had caught earlier that day. Truthfully, it never seemed as though there was any sincerity in her words. Daughters of Oʻahu though we were, I believe she was happy that one of her children elected to remain with her on terra firma—but the weight of her words still hung over me. I was a child of paradox.

Is that why I fell in love with you?

No, there were many reasons more valid than that, but I cannot escape the irony. I had been warned many times, by my mother and father alike, to avoid the young men in uniform visiting town from the nearby naval base. Military men were no good, they said. They were crass and promiscuous, unfit for a proper lady. I never had cause to give their words a second thought; after all, what business did I, someone too frightened to wade into the ocean beyond her waist, have with someone who spent most of his time sailing?

Those oft-repeated words of warning were conspicuously absent from my mind when we first met. All I remember was the abrasive stinging in my knee as it hit the dusty ground and the tough but gentle hand that helped me up. I did not see a uniform as I offered a few curt words of thanks while I dusted myself off, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having tripped; nor did I see a uniform when I lifted my head and was met with a look of honest concern, devoid of either mockery or pity. What I do remember seeing, quite clearly, was a pair of azure eyes that sparkled like those crystalline waters that I both loved and feared.

I do not believe in love at first sight, but there is no question that I was immediately smitten. My cheeks continued to burn, but the pain and the embarrassment were all at once washed away. There were, of course, many times later that I reflected on what an inelegant first impression I must have made and wished I could do something to change it. Thinking on it now, I wonder if that first meeting was not exactly as it needed to be. I learned so much about you with hardly a word exchanged between us: I learned about your strength and your gentleness; I learned about your honesty and your compassion; I learned about your savoir faire which was both polished and disarming. Perhaps all you learned about me was my clumsiness, but perhaps that was enough.

What else might those striking blue eyes have seen in me?

I knew there would be hell to pay when my parents learned that we were dating. There could never be enough words to justify how deliberately and remorselessly I had defied their wishes, although that was not enough to keep me from trying; still, I knew that my father was determined to hate you well before he met you. Imagine my surprise when you so quickly won him over. I still marvel at the quick turnaround. You were all he and my mother talked about that evening. I would be lying if I said that it was not rather embarrassing, but it was both flattering and reassuring, as well. Although I was determined to move forward with our relationship regardless, earning my parents’ approval did much to put my mind at ease.

There was one thing that continued to weigh on me, though: my fear of the ocean. I foolishly tried to hide it from you, hoping, inexplicably, that it would never come up. I knew that you were a true man of the sea, and I thought, perhaps, that you would lose respect for me if you knew how the very thought of being on open water made me tremble. I should have had more faith in you—in us—than that. I remember the laugh you gave when I told you; a laugh that, much like the look of concern you had given me when we first met, was neither mocking nor pitying. Somehow, that honest laugh conveyed understanding. I knew that, despite your confident poise, there was something that frightened you, as well.

Is that why you chose that moment to propose?

The coming months were a wonderful agony for me. Even with the small moments we were still able to steal while you were off duty, I spent most of my time counting down the days until you had completed your service—until we could finally begin our lives together. We joked about taking our honeymoon somewhere cold to escape the beautiful, tropical weather. Although I did my best to be patient, it felt, terribly, like those days would go on forever. Ironic, now, that I almost wish they had.

That December morning, when Japanese aircraft streaked across the sky and explosions tore through the air, is a morning that has been permanently and indelibly etched into my memory. I remember the terror, the panic, the chaos—I remember thinking that it could not possibly be real. I remember curling up in my bed, desperately covering my ears with my pillows as I clutched at my engagement ring, hoping and praying that it was just a nightmare.

I suppose it was, in a sense. It was a nightmare that continues now to tear the world apart. The fires of war that I never thought would spread to our shores are burning the world to ash as I speak. But that is not your concern anymore, nor your crewmates aboard the Arizona, nor any of the others lost on that dreadful morning. That day we long talked about, when your service would be complete, is finally here. I just thought I would be crying for a different reason.

Darling, I hope you have found rest enough for two in those quiet fathoms beneath the sea, because I do not believe I will ever again find any beside it.