To the Traveler Who Saved Me From Drowning
I’d been in Barcelona for a year when you came to the squat where I lived, immersed in an alternative society of anarchists, hippies, and punks. We called our home El Crowbar, a nod of respect to the tool we had used to move in. We cultivated a hard-edge aesthetic, massaged our posture into art. I was twenty-seven and you were younger, perhaps twenty-two. You’d come with a friend from San Francisco to explore Europe’s underground. This was in 2005, before Instagram tourism, before Airbnb. Like so many others, you’d heard of our existence from self-published zines and word of mouth. Understandably, you wanted a taste.
You emailed weeks before your arrival, my address procured from a friend of a friend, a typical arrangement in our network of vouching, demonstrating that you were not a liability, proving you were “down.” You were one of many guests at El Crowbar; we must have lodged a hundred people in the first year alone. Our credo was “from each according to one’s ability, to each according to one’s needs.” Or more simply, as they say in Spain, “cuando hay, hay.”
The first few days of your visit were pleasant, though unremarkable: dinner conversations, shared coffee and wine, one face among many around the table. I would have forgotten you altogether had you not wanted to see something outside of the city before you left for Paris or Berlin or wherever was next. I agreed to serve as tour guide. In truth, I enjoyed showing off. I was proud of the arcane knowledge that I’d acquired, proud that I had become part of something larger than myself. We saw our existence as a continuation of the struggles of the Spanish Civil War, when anarchists took control of the city in 1937, kicked out the bosses, ran all the shops, and painted the streetcars red and black. That moment, like all utopian moments, didn’t last, though we felt we were doing our best to keep it alive.
I saw a higher meaning in all of this, even as I fell into a party life. I wasn’t doing much to further our cause. I see that now. Sure, I volunteered at a radical lending library. I showed up to weekly protests. But some others in the scene were doing the real work: ongoing campaigns in support of refugees, environmental activism, prisoner solidarity. I was more of a hipster bohemian doing my best Jack Kerouac impression, chasing every pleasure, every whim. At the time, though, I took myself seriously. We’d rejected the world, remade it on our own terms. I thought our lifestyle was cause for celebration.
You were interested in both: the work and the play, altruism and having a good time. I suggested we camp for a night with a group of friends at a cove the locals called Waikiki, near Tarragona, an hour south by train. You, of course, were game.
We skipped the Roman ruins Tarragona is known for, and trekked directly to the beach. The place was ideal for swimming in the buff, surrounded by dense, fragrant pines. You and I had begun to banter with each other, tell jokes, reminisce about life back home. I admired your curiosity, how adventurous you were. We found a spot on the vacant beach, not far from the water, and set up camp. Our friends extracted crackers, manchego, and olive paste from their bags, and popped open their first beers. But you and I wanted to swim first. We’d come all this way. There had to be more than sitting around drinking beer. That was the thing about my circle: a good number of us had become complacent. Everything, even riots, had become routine. I was trying to remain inspired, trying to stay impressed. Maybe that’s why I was so open to visitors. They brought fresh energy and reminded me of why I was there. We stripped our clothes and stepped gently into the water, while the others remained on shore.
“We’d rejected the world, remade it on our own terms. I thought our lifestyle was cause for celebration. ”
At first, we only waded to our chests and admired the view, the sandy cliffs, the bright sky, the luscious sea. I wanted to swim to the buoys, yellow specs in the distance. It was dangerous, sure, but I had done this before. The same arrogance that drove me to live without a visa in an illegal house overseas led me to assume I was invincible.
You were up for the challenge and it turned out you were an excellent swimmer. You glided fishlike up ahead to the buoy, where, once I arrived, we talked awhile. All was quiet and calm. The air enclosed our words and brought them like capsules to our ears. I don’t recall what we said, but I remember your short dark hair, smoothed to the scalp. I remember your husky voice and your muscular body, patched with tattoos: a pinup lady, swallows, spider webs. And I remember your red-cooled lips.
Part of me wished for something romantic, but the jaunt had a particular innocence to it. We dog-paddled around the buoys, floated on our backs, and forgot about our friends on land. I don’t know how long we remained out there, until the sky underwent a change. The wind picked up, clouds rolled in, and thunder rumbled close by. The day darkened in minutes.
The word for undertow in Castilian Spanish is the same word used for hangovers: “resaca.” I knew the word before I ever told this story, but I’d never used it in its original meaning.
The serenity of the water disappeared. Undulations formed as though from a passing ship. I began chopping at the water, hoping to reach land before the skies opened, but it was too late. Sprinkles stippled the water, cold pricks on my arms and back.
I lost sight of you, already tired. My breath was too shallow, too quick, and I chopped faster. But the shore was too far. Water rose and fell and carried my body like a human bobber, revealing, while I was up, my friends on the beach, and while down, a watery grave. I got stuck where the waves began to break and the resaca caught me in its grip. It was relentless, pulling me backwards and down. I chopped and thrashed and hyperventilated.
The rain fell cold and violent and loud. If I could have peered then into my future, I would have figured it a strange dream. So much was yet to come: my disillusionment with this lifestyle, more idle years of wonder and searching and doubt, until I found refuge in books and began to write stories. I would have surprised myself, how I’d no longer scorn the norm, how I’d come to look like anyone else, how I’d go back to school and acquire a pair of degrees and become a teacher, a husband, a citizen who votes. I might have scoffed at the notion that I would make more of a difference as a teacher than as an anarchist squatter. But then again, I wouldn’t have the strong sense of justice I have now, had I not lived that earlier life.
But I did not see this future. My only view was a blue-green blur, and I’d given up hope. My invincibility was gone. And then, out of the surf, you appeared. You shouted that you had been a lifeguard, as you reached across my chest and cinched me tight. Calm down, you called. Slow your breath. We swam parallel to the shore until you let me go and at long last my feet hit sand.
I trudged through collapsing waves and fell to my knees, heaving and spitting burning phlegm. Beneath the downpour, my friends rushed to help. But they were only shapes and sounds, anonymous hands.
You saved me, selfless swimmer, and soon you left town. I never swam out to the buoys again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Christian is a writer and educator in New Orleans. His essays and journalism have appeared in the Baton Rouge Advocate, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Country Roads Magazine, The New Republic, and elsewhere.
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Header photo by Alexis Tetreault.