I’m İlayda, which also means “water fairy.” My first experience with life began in a hospital room in Antalya. You’ve heard of Antalya, right? The land of endless beaches and the infinite sea. No one’s first encounter with the sea is pleasant. I remember inhaling salty seawater through my nose. I bet it hurt just like the first breath I took in that very hospital room. As time passed, my relationship with the sea grew, just like everyone else's. Every summer holiday, we would go swimming. It was the most joyful activity for my small family under the boiling sun of Antalya. Everything felt safe with my floaties on, right there near the shore. But just like the safety lines in life, this sense of security didn’t last long. One day, my mom—my compass in all matters—took off my floaties and swam further away. Then she called out to me from a distance. At first, I didn’t understand what she wanted. I waddled back toward the safety of the shore. But apparently, things don’t always go the way we plan. Sometimes, we’re pushed out of our safe zones—without our consent, but for our good. I believe that’s what my mom had in mind. The sea felt endless and deep that day—and so did the anxiety growing in my heart. I couldn’t trust. I couldn’t cross that line. The next year, my mom pointed out an old woman sitting on the beach, still wearing her arm floaties. She told me, “If you don’t learn how to swim this year, that’s how you’ll end up.” I remember—it was the first time I truly felt concerned about my future. I did everything a seven-year-old could to learn to swim. Strangely enough, I learned to swim backwards before I ever learned to move forward. And maybe that’s still how I do things today. After that, every summer brought struggle. The beaches were always windy during the day, and the waves were huge. Trying to stay balanced in the water felt like torture. A few years later, I gave up swimming altogether and started using a pool noodle. For a while, until about seventh grade, it was fine. No one said anything. Then I met people. People my age. And they swam. They would call my name in the water and tease me for my yellow pool noodle. It was the first time I felt ashamed of a past decision. Swimming without a noodle felt just as torturous as before. I started sitting on the safety rope while my friends swam freely around me. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. Maybe I don’t deserve my name. When our exams ended and it was finally time to choose high schools, I wanted to be anywhere but Antalya. But it took less than three weeks to realise: the sea had been a gift from God all along. Now, the only time I see the sea is when I go to Kadıköy on weekends. In the past, the sea had just been a blue puddle to me. I didn’t notice its value until I got far away. Now I know—nothing feels special until you miss it. Whenever I feel overwhelmed in this mountain-covered city, I find myself staring at the sea of Istanbul. Maybe that’s why I felt so connected to this city, so quickly. When I returned to Antalya, the first thing I did was go to the coastline where I once suffered so much, and I cried like mad. I don’t know exactly what made me cry that day, but I know there’s something between me and the sea. Something unseen. Something secret. Last summer, I woke up early every day—even before the sun had a chance to greet the mountains—and I went swimming. This time, with no boundaries. No one around. Just me and the silent sea. One morning, I sat on the safety rope, just like I used to. I stayed there, undisturbed, until the sun rose between the mountains. On the last day of summer, I knew it would be the final time I’d swim alone that year. I lay on the surface of the water and listened to the eerie sounds rising from the depths. This summer, I’m not returning to Antalya. I’m going to Australia—another land of endless sea and sun. But it won’t be the same. It won’t be the salty sea of Antalya. Still, now I know: Wherever I live, there will always be something endless—something like the sea.