Siempre que llego a Gibara, antes de cualquier cosa, antes de saludar a la familia o deshacer la maleta, hay algo que no puede faltar: mi ritual de saludar el mar. Es casi automático, como si el cuerpo supiera el camino solo. Gibara no empieza para mí hasta que no veo el mar.

Este ritual me acompaña desde que tengo memoria. Cuando era niña, mi mamá y yo llegábamos directo a la casa de mi abuela y nos íbamos a la parte de atrás. Ese patio no era como cualquier otro: tenía al mar de frente, inmenso, azul, vivo. Un patio mágico, distinto, donde el ruido de las olas era parte de la familia. Allí aprendí a mirar el horizonte, a quedarme en silencio, a sentir paz sin saber todavía ponerle nombre.

Claro, no todo fue tan tranquilo siempre. Ese mismo ritual fue el responsable de uno de los mayores sustos que le di a mi madre. Un día, siendo niña y con más curiosidad que sentido común, decidí irme sola a explorar ese lugar. Yo solo quería sentarme a ver las olas, sin malicia, sin intención de acercarme al peligro. Pero ya sabemos… los padres siempre imaginan lo peor. Cuando mi mamá me encontró, además del abrazo del alivio, me llevé unas merecidas nalgadas (contado ahora con cariño y un poco de risa, porque sobrevivimos las dos al drama).

Ayer, como siempre, volví a saludar el mar. Pero ya no desde la mirada de una niña inquieta, sino desde el amor consciente de una adulta que entiende lo que ese paisaje significa. El mar no es solo agua; es memoria, es raíz, es calma. Es ese lugar que te recuerda quién eres cuando la vida afuera se pone ruidosa. Mirarlo es agradecer, respirar profundo, sentir que todo está, de alguna manera, en su sitio.

Así comenzó mi recorrido por Gibara: con un saludo lleno de amor. Amor a la naturaleza, a mis recuerdos, a la niña que fui y a la mujer que vuelve. Un saludo sencillo, como siempre, pero cargado de todo lo que no se puede decir en voz alta.

English Version

Every time I arrive in Gibara, before anything else, before greeting my family or unpacking my bags, there is something I can never skip: my ritual of greeting the sea. It feels almost automatic, as if my body already knows the way. Gibara does not truly begin for me until I see the ocean.

This ritual has been with me for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, my mom and I would arrive at my grandmother’s house and go straight to the back. That yard was unlike any other. The sea stood right there, vast, beautiful, alive. It was a magical and different kind of yard, where the sound of the waves felt like part of the family. That was where I learned to look at the horizon, to sit in silence, and to feel peace long before I knew how to name it.

Of course, it was not always so calm. That same ritual caused one of the biggest scares I ever gave my mother. One day, as a curious little girl with more courage than common sense, I decided to explore the place on my own. I only wanted to sit and watch the waves, with no bad intentions and no desire to get close to danger. But parents always imagine the worst. When my mom finally found me, along with the hug of relief, I also received a few well deserved spankings, told now with affection and a smile, because we both survived the drama.

Yesterday, as always, I greeted the sea again. This time not through the eyes of a restless child, but with the conscious love of an adult who understands what that view truly means. The sea is not just water. It is memory, roots, and calm. It is the place that reminds you who you are when life elsewhere gets too loud. Looking at it means being grateful, breathing deeply, and feeling that everything is somehow exactly where it should be.

And that is how my journey through Gibara began. With a greeting full of love. Love for nature, for my memories, for the child I once was and the woman who returns. A simple greeting, as always, but filled with everything that cannot quite be said out loud.

Source

The cover was made on Canva.

All the photos are taken and edited by me on Snapseed.

English is not my native language, I apologize if you find any mistakes in the translation.

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)

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