Friday, August 22, 2025

The Siren and The Sea

By Gracie Brinker

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When I was four, I wandered off a boat dock into freezing water, my legs giving out from under me, my body toppled into the Illinois River. It would take only a moment for my parents to drag me out from a burial at sea, but in the mere seconds I was in the water, I was free. My small body sunk in the murky waters for just an instant before I bobbed up. Hitting the surface, my mind became conscious, my thoughts began to swirl, my life began. Luckily, I had been wearing a life jacket, but even then, my parents pulled me out and told me to be more careful. My life jacket was there to protect me, not keep me locked in place. I would have to do that part myself. I don’t remember when I learned to swim, but I do remember what it was like to descend into the water, my body barely staying afloat. But like a buoy against treacherous waves, I would never entirely sink. 

The Buoys were a band formed in Pennsylvania in the 70’s. Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of them. I was fascinated over songs with twisted meanings for a summer, and when August rolled around, I was stuck with a bad sunburn and infinite knowledge about a cannibal song. If you know the song about Pina Coladas and making love at midnight, then you’ll know a songwriter of theirs. Rupert Holmes, who took the band under his wing when Scepter Records refused to support them, wrote the song, Timothy, specifically to get it banned. Why? Because people like to look for things they’re not supposed to but want to anyway. That’s probably why we’ve only explored about 25% of the ocean. Teenagers would call radio stations just to request them to play it. Adults would buy the record just to see if the lyrics really were true. Did they really eat Timothy? Or was this fictional man’s death supposed to be covered up too? 

The song follows 3 miners trapped in an accidental cave-in, days go by, and they are almost driven to madness by their own hunger. They are so gathered by the company of each other, yet so alone. Only enough water for two men, the singer and the other miner Joe, makes a decision that was worth a life, but not theirs. They were ravenous; their only way to survive at the expense of someone weaker. Timothy, who was never found after they were rescued, couldn’t stand up for himself, he couldn’t fight back, he couldn’t win. They took sips of their water, and then they ate their friend, whose screams were probably only heard by them, a death in the unknown, like a tune dragging him to his demise, his very own siren song. 

Sirens are from Greek mythology. They are half bird, half woman creatures that are known to seduce sailors to their deaths, charming them with a pretty song and then guiding them towards a not so pretty death. They are symbols of temptation, danger and how seduction can be powerful. Growing up, I always thought they were supposed to be mermaids. Beautiful mermaids with purple hair and sparkly blue tails and perfect singing voices, but behind the scales, there was the unknown. Beneath the waves, they hold secrets. 

In Homer’s The Odyssey, a group of sailors are charmed by sirens, barely avoiding death. The hero Odysseus tells his crew to plug their ears with beeswax to avoid being charmed by their singing while steering the ship. He ties himself to the mast. It’s not implied what the sirens were to do if they caught them, but most people assume they’d drown. Odysseus was a bit selfish though, for he himself got to indulge in the song of the sirens, but not his crew. Almost irresistible. Sometimes, people sacrifice the weaker man to get what they want in the end. Make them do more so they can do less. The better ending. It’s what we all want, right? How many times have you given someone less so you could have more? If you could have whatever you wanted, but someone couldn’t in return, would you still accept the offer? You can ask what Odysseus thinks, but you can’t ask Timothy. 

I’ve met plenty of sirens. Hard to believe, huh? Most of the sirens I’ve met had blue eyes and held my head under until water filled my lungs. One still haunts my thoughts, her singing molded into my memory like thread stitched into cloth. You can find her stalking these halls sometimes, although she’s not hard to miss. Her voice echoed like it wanted me to hear her. My arms flailed, my body fought back, I breathed in for air that wasn’t even there. When you drown, your natural instinct is to find air. Your mind wants to search for any sign of oxygen, but when you know you’re drowning, you panic, you thrash, you cling to your life as it’s slipping from you. The further I was pushed, the weaker I became. I couldn’t resist the charming songs. I will always give in. A watery grave may be my final destination, but it’s not where I am now.

The difference between sirens and miners is that miners often stop before they are ahead, giving up when the diamonds are practically blocks away. Patience is something they lack as they huff and turn away from possible success. While sirens can only be stopped when they are silenced, when there is no one to hear them. When there is no left to trap. The sirens I knew often gave up and once their hands were off my shoulders, I was left floating in deep unknown waters. The type of waters with no land in sight. Point Nemo. Known to the sirens, unknown to myself.

On the opposite side of the river, much farther from where he lives now, my grandpa used to own a marina. It was one of the many side projects Pop worked on. Countless boats and countless rides on the river with Pop. Most of them I can’t remember now. I do remember he had a lot of fish magnets on the fridge in his “work room”. Nautical Nonsense. If Asian carp could talk, they’d say “get outta my way, bitch!” as if they have the right of way. No wonder SpongeBob never got his driver’s license. Pop’s workroom was dedicated to all his projects and tools. It reminded me of a cave, the way the floor was concrete, and the walls were solid, only dimly lit by orangish light. The only light source was a lamp with a string to turn it on. When it was time for me to leave, I often yanked the cord and closed my eyes, quickly making my escape upstairs and never looking back. I always imagined creatures to be chasing after me, ones from the deep sea. Doesn’t everybody? I bet you’re thinking about it right now.…turning out the light and scrambling up the stairs before the monster gets to you. Taunting. When it fails to catch you, it retreats into its hiding spot until you happen to stumble down there again. Maybe today you were faster, or maybe tomorrow you may not be as lucky. The monster plays tricks on you because it knows you better than anyone else. It wants you to be afraid. It wants to drag you through the waves, until your body struggles to escape and you sink deep into dark water and the arms of a creature from the black lagoon. 

Sometimes, you don’t feel the sting of heartbreak, until the hook is stabbing through your cheek and you’re being dragged against your will up to the unknown. The person at the end of the hook holds you in their hand for a moment, not daring to look into your eyes, not wanting to sympathize with something much weaker than them, not enough to feel guilty for depriving you of the one thing you needed. Posing for their silly picture and finding a way to discard you. Suddenly, the hook is pulled from your skin, and you’re tossed back into all you’ve ever known. All the other fishes in the sea might not have a scar from a hook, but it doesn’t mean they haven’t been teased by the hook, line and sinker. Sometimes, you’re thrown into the rocks and grass, so nearly free. Or worse, you’re saved and gifted back to the water, as if it’s the only place you’re supposed to be. And maybe it is. Maybe you’re only supposed to swim up shore with the fishes, or maybe you’re supposed to dive into the deep unknown. So, maybe the sirens will guide you to where you’re meant to swim, or maybe they’ll eat you, or both. Either way, the waves will still crash, and the sirens will still sing. 

 

About the Author


Gracie Brinker is a student at ICC and when she can’t find her voice, she writes. Writing has been an outlet for her for many years, and she has been hesitant to share her work for some time but thinks now is finally the perfect time. She hopes you enjoy her work!

 

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