I
still remember the sound of the waves as if it were yesterday. It wasn’t just a
sound it was a rhythm, steady and rhythmic, like a colossal heartbeat calling
me back to a moment I never wanted to end. Whenever I close my eyes, I can
still feel the ghost of the ocean breeze brushing against my skin, carrying the
scent of salt, damp earth, and an intoxicating sense of freedom. That memory
takes me back to one of the happiest chapters of my life, a three day Eid
holiday spent with my family at a Ujung Grnteng beach in Sukabumi.
At
that time, I didn’t realize how deeply that trip would anchor itself in my
soul. For me, Eid holidays had always followed a predictable, comforting
script. They were about the familiar walls of our home, the ritual of visiting
relatives, the crisp feeling of new clothes, and the indulgence of traditional
dishes like rendang and opor ayam until I felt too full to move.
It was a season of warmth and tradition. But that year, the script was
rewritten when my sister suggested something entirely unexpected.
“How
about we go to the beach this year?” she
said, her eyes gleaming with a hidden plan.
Everyone
fell silent, “The beach?” I repeated, the word sounding foreign in the context
of our usual religious celebrations.
“Yes,”
she smiled, leaning back. “A short
vacation. Just the five of us. We’ll stay there for a few days, away from the
city, away from the crowds.”
At
first, I didn’t react much. I was a creature of habit, and the idea of missing
out on the usual neighborhood festivities felt strange. It sounded nice,
certainly, but I didn’t fully grasp the weight of the proposal. For me , it was
just another trip. But as the days led up to our departure, a quiet
anticipation began to bubble beneath my skin. I didn't know then that I was
about to trade the familiar walls of my room for the infinite horizon of the
Indian Ocean.
The
Departure into the Blue
The
day we left, the sky was still dark, mom woke me up earlier than the sun. “Wake
up, we need to go now,” she said, her voice a gentle melody against the silence
of the house as she pulled the curtains aside.
I
groaned, the weight of sleep pulling at my eyelids, and buried my face into the
pillow. “It’s too early… the sun isn't even awake yet.”
“We
don’t want to get stuck in the holiday traffic,” she replied, her footsteps
already retreating toward the kitchen where the smell of coffee was beginning
to bloom.
Reluctantly,
I dragged myself out of bed. The house felt electric that morning lively and
full of a nervous, happy energy. My siblings still haven’t woken up from their
sleep. And finally I woke them up to get ready and hurry up leave
By
the time we packed the trunk and squeezed into our seats, the sky had started
to bleed into a pale, dusty blue. The city of Bandung was still draped in
silence, with only a few stray vehicles on the road. I leaned my head against
the cold glass of the window, watching the streetlights pass by like golden
beads on a string, each one pulling us further from our routine.
As
we drove further toward the coast of Sukabumi, the urban landscape began to
dissolve. Tall, grey buildings were replaced by humble houses with terracotta
roofs, and soon, those too gave way to the majesty of West Java’s countryside.
Endless green rice fields stretched out like emerald carpets, and the hills
rose up to meet us, shrouded in morning mist. The air coming through the
slightly cracked window felt fresher, cool, and untainted by exhaust. Somehow,
as the elevation changed, I felt lighter too.
“Look
at that,” my dad said, slowing the car down near a cliffside pass.
I
followed his gaze. Below us, a valley was waking up, the sunlight just
beginning to hit the tops of the palm trees. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly.
At that moment, the skepticism I had felt about leaving home vanished, replaced
by a surging tide of excitement.
The
journey took several hours, weaving through winding roads and small villages,
but the time didn’t feel like a burden. We spent the hours in a way we rarely
did at home without the distraction of television or chores. We share stories
with each other, and sing along to the latest pop songs playing on the car
radio.
We
all started singing, in slightly off key voices but in perfect harmony with
happiness. I watched them all from the middle seat, realizing that this trip
wasn't just a holiday family. I stopped checking my phone. The digital world
felt flat and dull compared to the vivid green of the hills and the warmth of
my parents’ laughter.
First
Contact with the Infinite
When
we finally descended the final hills and arrived in the coastal area of
Sukabumi, the change was visceral. The air was no longer just "fresh",
it was heavy with the tang of salt and the humidity of the tropics. I stepped
out of the car at a small rest stop, and the wind hit me like an old friend.
And
then, I saw it. The ocean.
It
wasn’t just water, it was an expanse of liquid silver stretching toward an
impossible horizon. The waves moved with a deliberate, slow grace, crashing
against the dark rocks of the Ujung Genteng coastline. The sunlight danced on
the surface, making it sparkle with a billion tiny diamonds.
“Wow…”
I whispered, the word caught in my throat. I didn’t realize I had been holding
my breath until that moment. The sheer scale of the sea made my worries feel
like grains of sand.
“This
is amazing,” I added, turning to my sister. She looked satisfied, like a girl
who had successfully delivered a miracle.
Our
hotel was a charming, weathered building situated right on the edge of the
beach. It wasn't a five star luxury resort with gold plated faucets, but to me,
it was paradise. It had wide wooden verandas and the smell of jasmine in the
hallways. The moment we checked in, I grabbed the key and ran straight to our
room, throwing open the balcony doors.
The
ocean was right there. I could hear the roar of the surf, a deep, percussive
sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest. I stood there for a long time, just
staring at the white foam as it dissolved into the shore.
“I
could stay here forever,” I said, not realizing I was speaking aloud.
My
mom, who had followed me in to drop off the bags, laughed softly. “Let’s enjoy
the three days first before you decide to become a beach hermit.”
That
first afternoon was a blur of sensory delight. We didn't waste a single second.
We swapped our travel clothes for shorts and t-shirts and headed straight for
the water. The sand in Turtle Beach is unique coarser than the white powder of
Bali, but warm and grounded. I could feel the heat of the sun baked earth under
my soles, a grounding sensation that made me feel intensely alive.
I
approached the water’s edge with a bit of trepidation. The Indian Ocean is
known for its power. I waited for a wave to retreat, then stepped into the wet
sand. The water was surprisingly cold, a sharp contrast to the humid air, but
it was incredibly refreshing.
“Come
on! Don't be a coward!” my lil brother shouted, already waist deep in the surf,
dodging a breaking wave.
I
laughed, shook off my hesitation, and dived in. We spent hours in that water.
We played like children, splashing each other until our eyes stung from the
salt and our skin turned pruned. We tried to build elaborate sandcastles,
engineering moats and towers, only to watch them be reclaimed by the tide. Each
time the water leveled our creations, we just laughed and started again. There
was a profound lesson in that the beauty of the temporary.
As
the sun began to dip on our first evening, I sat on the beach and just watched
the very bright stars that night. In that simple, unadorned moment, everything
felt right. There were no deadlines, no expectations, no social pressures. Just
the family, the sand, and the sea.
The
Thrill of the Waves
The
second day brought a shift in energy. If the first day was about peace, the
second was about adrenaline. After a breakfast of fried rice and fresh watermelon,
my sister pointed toward a colorful speck on the water.
“Let’s
try that,” she said.
I
squinted against the glare and saw a bright yellow banana shaped boat being
prepped by the local guides. “The Banana Boat?” I asked, my heart giving a
small, nervous thud.
“Why
not?” my sister challenged. “When was the last time we did something crazy
together?”
My
siblings were instantly on board, jumping up and down with excitement. I,
however, looked at the waves which seemed significantly larger today and then
at the flimsy looking inflatable boat. But the spirit of the holiday had taken
hold of me.
“Okay.
Let’s do it.”
A
few minutes later, we were strapped into bright orange life jackets, looking
like a row of oversized citrus fruits. The instructor gave us a quick briefing
that did little to calm my nerves. “Hold the handles. If the boat flips, just
let go and float. Don't fight the water.”
If the boat flips? I thought. He means when.
We
climbed onto the rubber tube, sitting in a single file. I was in the middle, my
hands gripped so tightly around the nylon handles that my knuckles turned
white. The speedboat engine roared to life, and the rope between us went taut.
“Ready?”
the instructor shouted over the engine.
“Ready!”
my family screamed in unison.
The
boat lurched forward. At first, it was a pleasant, fast glide. The wind was
blowing very hard, and the spray of the sea cooled my face. I thought, This
isn't so bad. This is actually quite nice.
Then,
the driver of the speedboat looked back and grinned. He began to zigzag.
The
banana boat started to bounce violently over the wake of the waves. We were no
longer gliding, we were flying. Each time the boat hit the water, a loud smack
echoed, and we would all jolt into the air.
“AAAAAA!”
We weren't just screaming out of fear, it was a pure, cathartic release. My
brother was yelling something incoherent, and my dad was laughing so hard he
almost lost his grip.
“Faster!”
my lil brother yelled, her voice lost in the wind.
The
driver obliged. He took us further out, where the swells were higher. The world
became a blur of blue water and white foam. My heart was racing at a thousand
miles an hour. It was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I had ever
done.
Suddenly,
the speedboat made a sharp, 180 degree turn. Centrifugal force took over. I
felt the banana boat tilt… 45 degrees… 60 degrees…
“Hold
on!!”
Splash!
In
an instant, the world turned upside down. I hit the water and submerged into a
quiet, bubbly blue world. For a few seconds, the chaos of the surface vanished.
Then, the buoyancy of the life jacket kicked in, and I popped back up like a
cork.
I
wiped the water from my eyes and saw my family scattered around the floating
yellow boat, all of us bobbing in the deep water. There was a moment of
silence, and then, as if on cue, we all erupted into hysterical laughter.
“Did
you see Mom’s face?!” my brother gasped, spitting out seawater.
“I
thought I was going to fly to Australia!” my dad joked.
We
climbed back on, exhausted but buzzing with energy. By the time we walked back
to the shore, my muscles were aching, but my spirit felt lighter than air.
That
evening, the atmosphere shifted back to a quiet reverence. We found a spot on
the rocks to watch the sunset. In Turtle Beach, the sunsets are legendary. The
sky didn't just change color, it performed an epic poem. It shifted from a
brilliant gold to a fiery orange, then softened into hues of rose, lavender,
and finally a deep, bruised purple.
“It’s
beautiful,” my mom said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she didn't want to
disturb the horizon.
I
sat there, the cooling sand between my toes, watching the sun disappear behind
the edge of the world. There was a profound silence between us not the awkward
silence of people with nothing to say, but the rich silence of people who have
shared something meaningful.
“I
don't want to go home,” I said. The words felt heavy because they were so true.
My
sister looked at me and smiled, a bit sadly. “I know. But the reason this feels
so good is because it’s a break from the world. We carry this feeling back with
us.”
“I’d
still rather stay,” I muttered, and we all laughed.
The
Weight of the Final Morning
On
the third day, the air felt different. It was the day of departure, and a sense
of melancholy had begun to settle over me. I woke up at dawn, even before my
mother this time. I walked out onto the balcony in my pajamas, the morning air
chilly against my skin.
The
ocean was calm, almost glass like, reflecting the grey pink light of the early
sun. I watched a lone fisherman in a small jukung boat far out in the
distance. He looked so peaceful, a tiny dot in a vast universe. I tried to
memorize everything the way the salt felt in the humidity, the specific rhythm
of the tide, the way the hotel’s wooden floorboards creaked.
I
wanted to bottle this feeling and take it back to the noisy, crowded streets of
the city. I wanted to keep the peace of Sukabumi in my pocket for the days when
life felt too loud.
“I
wish we could stay longer,” I whispered to the waves.
The
process of packing was somber. We didn't argue over snacks this time. We moved
quietly, folding our damp towels and sandy clothes. When we finally checked out
and walked to the car, I felt a physical heaviness in my chest a longing for a
place that I had only known for seventy two hours.
As
my dad started the engine, I looked back at the hotel, then at the path leading
to the beach.
“Ready
to go?” my mom asked, sensing my mood.
“No,”
I said honestly. “But I guess we have to.”
As
we drove away, winding back up the hills, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview
mirror. I watched the blue line of the ocean grow thinner and thinner until it
was nothing more than a memory.
“Goodbye,”
I said softly under my breath.
Reflection
Looking
back on those three days, I realize they were a turning point for me. Life
moves so fast college, work, expectations, the constant noise of the digital
age. We often forget that we are part of a larger, natural world. Those three
days by the sea taught me that happiness isn't a destination or a grand
achievement.
It
was found in the sting of salt in my eyes. It was in the ridiculous scream of a
banana boat ride. It was in the quiet orange glow of a Turtle Beach sunset and
the simple warmth of a family meal without the interruption of a ringing phone.
Even
now, years later, when I feel stressed or overwhelmed, I close my eyes and I go
back there. I hear the waves. I feel the breeze. I am reminded that no matter
how chaotic life becomes, the sea is still there, rhythmic and eternal.
The
three days I never wanted to leave gave me something that stayed with me
forever: the realization that the most precious things in life aren't things at
all they are the moments of togetherness that we hold onto, long after the sand
has been washed from our shoes.
And
if I could go back to that balcony, feeling that breeze for the first time
again, I wouldn't change a single thing. Except, perhaps, I would find a way to
stay just a little bit longer.
