The Baby with the Salt Water

Close your eyes. Imagine the wondrous point on Earth where the two giants of the world meet: land fades into sea. Listen to the soft whooshing of waves, gently crashing onto the shore. Smell the salt in the heavy air, letting the moisture penetrate your pores. Feel the powdery, damp sand squishing between your toes. Press your feet into the ground as the water overwhelms your footprints and then withdraws, erasing the evidence of your presence. Now, open your eyes and see the vast, boundless edges of the ocean, almost curving at the horizon under a blood-red sun setting in the distance. The beach.

Despite the loud chatter of enthusiastic participants around me, the serene setting of the ocean around me instantly put me at ease. It was the Partnership Walk at Santa Monica Pier, a charity event sponsored by the spiritual leader of Ismaili Muslims, the Aga Khan, to help eradicate global poverty. This day, October 25th 2009, was special for first times. For the first time, I came home from college for the weekend, to cure my homesickness and participate in the Walk. For the first time, I was visiting Santa Monica—the closest to Hollywood I have ever come in my years as a Southern Californian resident. For the first time, I was spending the day with an impossibly attractive Ismaili boy I met on the Golden Gate Bridge at the San Francisco Partnership Walk. For the very first time, I was witnessing the baptism in the ocean of a young child by a large group of African American Christians, unusually drawn to them but unsure of the social protocol surrounding this sacred ceremony.

On a whim, the handsome Ismaili boy—who donned an adorable white Fedora hat—and I, accompanied by several acquaintances around our age, strayed from the designated Partnership Walk path down Santa Monica Boulevard. We were lured to the beach by the sound of the ocean water, shining under the Californian sun. Finally reunited with my favorite landscape, I remember feeling the giddiness and inexplicable electricity between the boy and me, as we shed our socks and shoes off our feet to converge with the sandy skin of the shoreline. As I allowed the cool water to rush up against my ankles, which drew back into the ocean leaving ripples around my toes as the sand imprinted my feet, my faithful nose couldn’t help but detect the wafting scent of marinated barbequed meat and freshly baked cake on a train of white tables under several large white tents nearby. The food tantalizingly beckoned to my friends and me, and one of the boys I was with jokingly suggested to “crash” the party in order to eat the food without invitation. As I looked over at the group of people surrounding the white canopy tent, my eyes met a unique ritual.

About forty African American males stood waist deep in the ocean, wearing white robes, encircling something that the man in the middle of the circle seemed to be holding in their hands. Twenty or so women, also dressed in white gowns, looked on from the shoreline, their lips whispering mysteries. A few of them had rosaries weaving effortlessly between their fingers. Strangely, my eyes fixated on the scene, capturing my mind’s attention to make sense of the incident I was observing. At this point, I felt a gentle nudge on my arm as someone whispered that I was staring. I tore my eyes away from the water and looked to my left. The nudge came from the beautiful Fedora boy, who looked unfazed and a bit concerned.

“What’s going on? What are they doing?” I asked him curiously.
“It’s an ocean baptism. They are christening their baby in the water, to symbolize the cleansing of sins and the union of the Christian with Jesus Christ. It’s common in Los Angeles to see cultural traditions all over the place. Like a melting pot, whose fire burns California,” he answered with a twinkle in his eyes.

I looked on as waves tumbled over the baby, resting gently in strong arms as the surrounding men began to recite psalms from the Bible. The scene seemed so serene, so beautiful and so orchestrated despite the rambunctious set of twins shouting and splashing water right by the tents, an intense game of beach volleyball on the court just behind the Christians, and my group of friends, tossing a football to each other nearby, aloof to the ceremony taking place only feet away from us.

It seemed as if the ceremony was entirely removed from the beach scene. No one besides me was transfixed by the calm recitation of prayers and unity of the black Christians. I asked my friend about the social context around the religious ritual. “Does this happen often here? Why doesn’t anyone even notice them?”

A bit puzzled at my fixation on the baptism, he replied, “Well, it’s a private ceremony. We don’t participate with them because it would be like we were interrupting their privacy. It is a personal event, shared with family and close friends…why are you so interested?”

I had no answer to his question. Why was it that the baptism I was witnessing had some kind of possession over me, attracting my eyes and sparking my curiosity? Perhaps it was the baptism itself, so natural and communal and different from the way the Ismaili boy, his friends, and I were accepted into Islam. We too were just babies when we took the bay’at, an Arabic word meaning allegiance. Our parents held us, as infants, in the mosque just like the black father dressed in white held his baby in the sea, as the leader of the daily ceremonies sprinkled holy water on our faces. No food, no party, no crowd, no beach. Yet there was something intriguing about the ocean baptism I was witnessing. I remember feeling a strong pull towards these people, but reluctant to walk over and ask the questions swirling around in my mind. Why? I found myself experiencing a peculiar internal battle. What was it that was stopping me from joining them? Perhaps I felt like an intruder, peeping in to what the Fedora-clad boy called “a personal event,” taking place in the public eye only because the ocean is communally owned. It seemed vital to respect their space, and allow them to share this important moment with their young loved one. Torn between finding out more about the ocean baptism and remaining within ethical boundaries, my traitorous eyes couldn’t help but look over to witness the closing of the ceremony. The baby was wrapped in a clean white towel, as the adults brought him back to shore and handed him to his mother. She adorned an intricate white headdress but simple white cotton gown, closely embracing her son who had just become a true Christian like her—a spiritual recognition of the black tradition within him.

After the men came out of the water, the reception celebrations commenced. The child was brought back to Earth, ready to participate in the joys and sorrows the world had in store for him. The foil was removed from the trays of barbeque and the tantalizing smell captured the attention of even the football-tossing high schoolers I arrived with. The din and enthusiasm of the feasting Christians was almost infectious and I found myself smiling at their happiness. I, like one of the young boys I was with who had suggested earlier, was even considering “crashing” the party by acting as if I knew the newborn to get to the food, , starving for not only the barbeque and cake, but also for the meaning behind the ritual I had just seen. The jubilant celebration of the christening was equivalent to the symbolic meaning behind the baptism. Each seemed equally significant, the union of the spiritual and material worlds. Somehow, the party still held my captivation. As the mother of the newborn turned away from her gaze over the water, she met my eyes. For a moment, I felt exposed, ashamed for watching them so closely. To my relief, the corners of her salt-parched lips slowly turned upward. She then raised her head towards the sun, shut her eyelids and smiled broadly, the chocolate skin of her baby’s cheek glistening in the sunlight against her chest like the shimmering water of the Pacific.

Close your eyes. Imagine the history of the ocean. Its age, its experiences, its eternity. The sea is like a collection of untold stories, wading in the water but never washing up to shore. It is the host of such extensive memories throughout time, records of which are covered by foamy waves and high tide. Now, open your eyes and consider the knowledge embedded in the grains of white sand. Imagine the wondrous point on earth where the two giants of the world meet: the beach.