My grandfather was a free diver. He was born and raised by the ocean. He grew up alone, with no pets and families. He roamed coasts and forests by himself, looking for safety in the middle of a war. His home, the ocean. His heart, the forest. His solitude, the sky.
My grandfather was a free diver. He taught me how to swim open water when I was three. He trained me hard. Seven days a week. He told me to keep pushing. To keep swimming. To breathe underwater. To let my body float after difficult times. To find coins at the bottom of the pool at night.
My grandfather was a free diver. He mentioned that everything that comes from the ocean is pure. He said that I was made out of seaweed. He also stressed that the wilderness of the ocean and the darkness of the forest live in me. He told me that there is a hurricane swirling in my mind, and I didn’t know how to shut it down, but he asked me not to. There is always a hurricane in the middle of Atlantic ocean.
My grandfather was a free diver, and none of his children nor his other grand children know how to swim.
My grandfather was a free diver. And I’m still making my way toward the ocean.