An Ode to Kelp

I must admit that I have felt off lately. It’s a type of imbalance that takes sole responsibility for my inconveniences. I can’t hold my pencil the right way anymore, and my hands begin to shake when anyone so much as utters a word in my direction. I’m ripping pages off my sketchbook in half with pencils irreparably snapped at the tip. I keep having to buy new ones, and these small blunders are quickly becoming mild atrocities.

My mother says it’s because I haven’t left the house in ages. I disagree. I go for walks every now and then, and, of course, I tell her this. That doesn’t stop her from sending me postcards of places I should visit in hopes of spurring that delusional wanderlust I once had.

And I touch it, the texture slimey and unappealing.

But, I feel comforted by these giant stalks wading in the water. Their transparent greens glisten underneath my fingers. They’re giant; they tower over me, as an enormous underwater forest should. Tips intertwined and circling each other, until the ends become beginnings, and my ability to decipher which is which becomes insignificant. The seaweed grows in branches, an intricate system I hardly feel privy to, despite wading amongst it for so long.

And my mind, it does the wandering for me as it expands across the sandy textures of my aged rug and through the closed windows of my secluded house. It keeps bringing me back to this memory I have as a child. I’m standing at a shore-- the place indistinguishable from any sandy beach on the map. The seafoam tickles my toes and I giggle while burying them deeper in the sun. I’ve got a thin layer of parental sunblock coating the expanse of my crinkled nose and chubby cheeks. My mother towers over me, her smile just as wide as the quiet waves. I take her hand in mine as she leads us towards the water.

My mother used to call it an oceanic urge.

The particular brand of restlessness I used to get when we would drive past the freeway. It was miles and miles of concrete and traffic following the path of the pacific currents. It was a drive that I loved. It’s a drive that I miss.

I’ve got frozen kelp in my fridge and I’m not sure what to do with it. My mom says it's best to cook it now before it goes bad. But, we both know there's no expiration date in sight. She insists it’ll be a taste of home.

It's a soothing type of sensation-- a meditative state brought on by a world of green. The seaweed lines the ocean, fluttering like the most careful of creatures. It wades like infinite fishline sometimes plunging into the depths of the ocean, where only the most magical and obscure entities reside. I let the lines encompass me and the tips of my fingers.

I got the postcard a few days ago, but I lost sight of the bright yellow envelope under an overgrowing mountain of bills. The return address, written with a decadent hand and red ink, reads a set of lines all too familiar. My mom had been worried about me lately-- is convinced that homesickness is to blame for my late night phone calls. Everybody makes their way back home eventually, she says as her farewell. The postcard must be in invitation.

I open it up and immediately scan over the words, “Vacation to America’s first Underwater Forest!” It’s in a gaudy green font that reminds me of our family vacations. A warmth travels over me at the thought of our matching scuba gear.

When the underwater forest first became a permanent tourist attraction, my mother decided to stop visiting.

She hated the influx of travelers, especially ones less appreciative of the emerald cities. She called them leeches--groups of uninterested parents looking for any form of entertainment to placate their rowdy children. Instead, my mother used to buy our seaweed fish line in bulk. The minute the truck would pull into the driveway of our old home, she would holler my name with childish glee. Her voice would reverberate through the house and our usual delivery man would know to drop off the boxes at the foot of our fences.

My mother would dance around the house, juggling a handful of clothespins in one palm and a tangled mess of clothesline messily wrapped around her wrist. Then, she would bury two plastic sticks into the sand of our backyard, and wrap the clothesline around them. I loved those moments, where she would mumble under her breath while opening the boxes-- sweet words of giddy anticipation. In the meanwhile, I would wrap the slimy seaweed through my fingers and fling it over the clothesline. She would join me shortly after and always said to me that nothing was more fun than watching kelp dry. It’s not something I understood until I was a teenager, and even then I would still snort.

Written and photographed
by Anabelle Plaza

More info on seaweed farming:

Kelp Benefits: A Health Booster from the Sea - Healthline

Seaweed is easy to grow, sustainable and nutritious. But it’ll never be kale. - Washington Post