Beryl’s earliest memory of pain could be associated with her moving away from the lush
greenland and marshlands of Exuma. The island and its surrounding cays held, in her mind, her
entire being.

“Three hundred and sixty five cays are out there.”

She could remember her grandfather pointing into the distance. One small island for every day
of the year. The Exuma isles and the waters that encased them were known to have healing
powers. Their depths held secrets and their waves carried prayers. Exuma blue, no matter how
hard one tries, carries with it a weight too laborious to replicate. To sit on the shore of an exuma
beach and stare into its abyss, to be held by the currents running off of the tropic cancer, to feel
the sun beat against your back and usher you deeper in the cleansing waters, well that would
be like basking in the presence of God herself.

If she looked back on her childhood, Beryl could honestly say that she wasn’t troublesome in
nature. She was inquisitive, and cared about the community around her. Wildly passionate with
feelings so big that those around her could not help but be pulled into the gravitational force of
her emotions. In 1946 Georgetown Exuma, these things not only made her troublesome, they
made her one to be wary of.

As a child, Beryl would often run barefoot through the winding track roads of the lush forest and
close her eyes. Her feet knew the way better than her eyes did. The sun peeking through the
brush of the forest warming her skin in swift intervals. The quick slaps of her feet hitting against
the dry leaves and twigs of the forest floor. She would pick up speed when she realised that her
end goal was just a few metres away. The humidity of the air around her would become heavier
as the presence of salt became more potent. If she slowed down she could almost certainly
hear the crashing of the waves against the shoreline. She would never slow down though. It
would be a sin to tarry in this precarious purgatory of earth and water.

Bursting through the bush of the surrounding forest, her arms would open wide as if running
through the ribbon of a marathon. Beryl was always first and her prize was undoubtedly the
beach. Breaking through the thatch of bush that held the confines of the forest was always
Beryl’s favourite part. The rush of fresh salty air would often take away the heaviness of the
forest. The sudden feeling of fine white sand between her toes, a welcome relief from the forest
floor. The gulls would begin singing as if officially welcoming her back. In the distance, the
intricate blues of an ocean mankind could never dare recreate.

Living in a small town under the scrutiny of so many eyes made Beryl long for the freedom that
only the ocean and its surrounding nature could provide. The beaches of Great Exuma were
not only her playground, they were her home. On an island that expected so much of her and
her Marshall last name, On this beach, she could shed the facade of ladylikeness and be who
she was, at one with the nature around her. She would whisper her deepest wishes into the
salted wind and in her childlike folly, hoped they would come true once they brushed the ears of
God.

The gossip around town had grown to a deafening point, the people of Georgetown had seen
how the second Marshall son had brought pure disgrace to his house, to his name. Beryl
watched as her father gambled away all that he inherited. One hundred thoroughbred horses,
several thousand acres of land. She understood that her family had less because of his habits;
she just never understood that it would cost her the only home she ever found comfort in. When
her mother finally decided to pack up her and her siblings and move, she didn’t think that the
move would take them to the completely foreign shores of New Providence. The furniture and
baggage being manoeuvred onto the mailboat were never an indicator for her, but when she
made her way to the stern of the boat and saw the gulls following the vessel for as long as they
could, that’s when her then 8 year old mind realised that the gulls and the shores of Yumey were
saying goodbye. This was her first pain.

Before every major transition in life, Beryl came to understand that pain would accompany it.
Giving birth to the children she loved dearly, fighting hours on end in labour to bring them into
the world. Like the women that would have come both before and after her, she realised that
motherhood was not a painless transition.

When the love of her life walked out on her, leaving behind his family in an unfinished home, the
transition to sole provider was certainly not painless.

Beryl learnt very early on that life was a series of painful adventures. A common misconception
of adventure is that it guarantees good. `The roads we take, the experiences we have, our trials
and our errors simply promise a lesson that helps facilitate the transition to yet another
adventure. More often than not, these adventures will always be painful. One right after the
other. Preparing us for the final one. Pain, a constant in them all.

Pain is a rite of passage.

This is how Beryl knew she was no longer in the land of living. Her last pain was the greatest.
Beryl had lost track of time but her last few months on earth were spent with her cruelly trapped
within her mind, feverishly trying to claw her way out. Unable to move on her own and banging
at walls when her words failed her. In those last days her mind played the worst tricks on her.
Transporting her to places and times long gone.

Her life’s happiness and failures played on a loop in her mind, constantly reminding her of the
things she didn’t say and do. The people she loved and lost and the time she would never
regain. Her mind played these moments and then all of a sudden…

They were just gone.

Those people and those moments were long gone and the only thing she had in this very
moment was the vast mangrove forest she now found herself in. Stretching for miles in every
direction, Beryl saw the thick brush seamlessly blend and race with the sky. The gentlest of
breezes nudged her forward yet she firmly set her feet in the ankle deep water, not yet ready to
leave this calming place. The tiny fish of the sacred ecosystem moved through the water as if
they were one with it, weightless and effortless as they swam by her ankles. Each one of them
taking more and more of her heaviness as they swam by.

“You should move with them.” Beryl was broken from her weightless reverie by the sound of her
own voice. It carried across the water and seemed to reverberate at the edge of time. She had
never been inclined to listen to her own thoughts. Her life had been a series of doing things for
others. She was so used to this that she no longer possessed the ability to act with the sole
beneficiary of the action being herself. It was odd, and yet, she stepped forward.

She lifted one foot and placed it in front of the other. Sinking it firmly in the soft silt. The small
silver fish feeding off of the weight of her sorrows, freeing her from memories she never thought
she’d rid herself of. The fish began to grow bigger and bigger right before her eyes.

“I need you.”

The cry was quiet and still it made Beryl stop. She didn’t realise just how far she had walked into
the mangrove until she turned her head in the direction of the voice. She was miles away from
where she had started and still she saw the silhouette of a small child standing at the edge of
the mangrove calling out for someone.

“Why is she alone?” Beryl thought.

The voice only spoke once but it settled so deep into Beryl’s bones that she knew she would do
anything to hear laughter from this child. She would do anything to rock her and soothe her and
assure her that today’s problems will seem fickle in the light of her future happiness. Words she
herself had longed to hear in her past life. She wanted to give this child comfort and a hopeless
amount of peace.

And with that, she turned her back to the channels of the mangrove and made determined steps
towards the shore.