The Jellyfish Lady

Miami. The convent sent me south to cool off. The convent had never met the ocean. The ocean had never met me.

By Tuesday a Cuban in a white suit was teaching me the cha-cha. By Wednesday he was teaching me Spanish. I only learned the bad words.

I couldn't swim. I told the lifeguard God would hold me up. He looked at me, looked at the sea, and asked if God had read my file.

Seven days in the shallow end in orange water wings. The children laughed. I took their names.

Day eight I swam past the rope. Nuns don't do ropes. We do vows. Different knot.

I went down like a stone. Like a confession nobody wanted to hear.

At the bottom I said, Lord, I'm coming home.

He said, not with that cigar you're not.

Then something with forty arms and no opinions scooped me up and carried me into the light. Soft. Patient. Didn't ask a single question about Key West.

I lit a cigar to thank her. She stung the lifeguard.

The jellyfish? Never saw her again.

The Cuban still writes.

Own the memory: a signed limited edition of 50, pigment on aluminum, in three sizes.