The Tide That Keeps

The first time I saw them, I thought they were seals. Dark heads bobbing in the gray-green chop off Alisal Point, where the old cannery used to stand before the fire took it in ’79. But seals don’t wear shirts, and they don’t wave. They flailed, arms slapping the water, mouths open in silent cries I couldn’t hear over the surf. Then they went under, one by one, and the sea smoothed over like a lie.

I’ve lived here all my life, in my grandmother’s house that leans into the wind like a stubborn old woman. I work at the fish market on the pier, and every day I walk the shore to clear my head. But my head is never clear. It’s full of the dead—their whispers, their wants, their last moments. I’m what Aunt Rosa called a ‘veedor,’ a seer. She had the gift too, but she warned me it was a curse. ‘The dead don’t let go, mijo,’ she’d say, tapping her chest. ‘They live in you.’ She taught me to build walls, but the walls have holes.

The first time I saw the drowning, I almost ran into the water. A young man, maybe twenty, dark hair plastered to his skull, flailing just beyond the breakers. He looked so real, so desperate. I had my jacket off, shoes kicked aside, when a cold hand clamped my wrist. It was Old Man Reyes, who’s been dead five years but still patrols the beach in his yellow raincoat. ‘No, Tomás,’ he said, his voice like dry kelp. ‘That one’s from ’92. A smuggler’s boat capsized. He didn’t make it.’ I stood there, shaking, watching the spot where he vanished. The water was empty. But I still felt the cold, the panic, the salt burn in my lungs.

It happens more often now. Maybe because the currents changed, or the sandbar shifted, or because I stopped taking the pills that dull the visions. I see them—men, women, sometimes children—struggling in the waves. They don’t call out in words; they call out with their eyes, their hands. They want me to follow. And the horrible part is, they don’t come up. They sink, and the water closes over them, and I’m left on the shore with my heart pounding and my stomach twisted in knots.

I’ve tried to help. I called the coast guard once, screamed into my phone that there was a swimmer in distress. They sent a boat, scoured the area for hours. Nothing. The officer, a woman with kind eyes, told me it was probably a log or a seal. She didn’t believe me when I said I saw a face. She wrote it off as a false alarm. But I know what I saw. I see them every day now. I see them in my sleep. I see them in the ripples of my coffee.

Yesterday, I saw a girl. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, black hair braided with sea grass, a yellow dress billowing around her like a bloom. She was closer to shore, in the shallows where the water is clear. She was calling my name. ‘Tomás,’ she said, her voice thin as a gull’s cry. ‘Tomás, help me.’ I took a step forward, the water lapping at my boots. I felt the tug, that familiar pull in my chest. But then I saw her eyes—they were white, like old bone. And she smiled, and her teeth were black. I stumbled back, falling on the wet sand. When I looked up, she was gone. But the water where she’d been was dark, like oil.

I went to see Father Miguel after that. He’s the only one who knows about my gift, and he doesn’t judge. He lit a candle, recited a prayer, but I could tell he was scared. ‘Tomás,’ he said, ‘these are not the souls of the drowned. These are something else.’ He gave me a small silver cross, told me to wear it. I put it on, but it feels cold against my chest. That night, I dreamt of the point. I was underwater, looking up at a pale sun. The bodies were all around me, floating, their faces calm. But the girl—she was swimming toward me, fast, her mouth open in a silent scream. I woke up gasping.

Today, I went to the point again. The tide was low, exposing the black rocks where the seals used to sun. I saw a shape caught in a crevice—a piece of fabric, yellow. I climbed down, careful on the slick stones. It was a dress, stained and torn, and it was fresh. Not old. I pulled it out, and the fabric was wet, but there was no smell of salt. It smelled like decay, like rot. I almost dropped it, but then I saw something else—a small shoe, a child’s shoe, with a buckle. It was engraved with initials: ‘M.R.’ I felt a chill. My mother’s name was Maria. Her nickname was ‘Mari.’ And she drowned when I was six, off this very point.

I stood there, holding the shoe, and the water seemed to still. The waves quieted, the gulls stopped crying. I heard a hum, low and mournful, rising from the deep. Then I saw her—my mother—rising from the water like a ghost. She was young, the way I remember her, with the same dark hair, the same smile. She reached out a hand. ‘Tomás,’ she said, ‘come with me. It’s peaceful here.’ And for a moment, I wanted to. I felt the weight of all the years, all the sorrows, and I wanted to let go.

But then I saw the others behind her. Dozens of them, faces blank, floating just beneath the surface. The girl with the black teeth was there, and the young man from ’92, and Old Man Reyes, his yellow raincoat billowing like a shroud. They were all reaching for me. And I knew—if I went in, I’d never come out. I dropped the shoe, scrambled up the rocks, and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the parking lot, gasping, my lungs burning.

I haven’t gone back. I called in sick. I sit in my house, the curtains drawn, the cross in my hand. But the dead are not so easy to escape. They whisper through the walls, they thrum in the floorboards. And every night, I hear the waves. Not the crash and hiss of the sea, but a slow, rhythmic breathing, like something waiting. The tide is coming in, and I know it wants me. The tide that keeps. It keeps the dead, and it keeps their secrets. And now, it has my mother’s shoe. But it won’t have me. Not yet. Not while I can still fight. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the pier, and I’ll tell them to stay away from the water. I’ll warn them. But they won’t believe me. They never do. And the tide will keep rising, and the dead will keep reaching, and I’ll keep walking the shore, caught between the living and the drowned.

But sometimes, in the quiet just before dawn, I hear her voice. Not calling for help anymore. Calling for me. ‘Tomás, come home.’ And I wonder—if I go down there, if I let the water take me, will I finally find peace? Or will I become just another shadow in the deep, forever reaching for the next living soul? The tide doesn’t answer. It just keeps coming. And I keep standing on the edge, my toes wet with foam, my heart full of salt.