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The seas are always dangerous; sailors will talk of rough tides and treacherous rocks, vicious beasts and winds that blow a ship far off course. Our Eyavarri Bay has its own particular kind of danger, but first, let me tell you about its unique beauty.
On summer nights, the waves in our bay shine as if they are made of light. The droplets that spray in the air glow like stars; with every disturbance, an ethereal blue light ripples through the water. I have seen visitors to our bay wade into the water with the seafoam spreading behind them like wings, so that one might imagine them to be blessed by the gods.
The lights are a blessing of sorts, for they rise from the tears of our goddess Yavarri. Once Yavarri loved a man who made boats. His boats sped nimbly across the surface of the waves, and Yavarri thought that she’d found one whose soul matched hers. To him she promised all the treasures that fell into the sea and the secrets of the waters, for all such things belong to Yavarri. She would have held him in her arms and brought him her bed of sunstar and coral, deep down to the place where no starlight touches, and she would have gifted him the blessings of gills and tail.
But he longed for the land. His heart’s joy was finding the shape within the oak and cedar, and the thought of living in the waters among the rotting corpses of ships was a nightmare to him. Besides, Yavarri frightened him. He feared her rainbow scales, her sharp spines, and her eyes that reminded him of starless night--though those of us who follow her, of course, know that the color of her eyes are not of plain night but of the deepest sea. He fled from her, deep into the inland deserts where no water touched. Because of the compact she made with the eldest gods of the land, Yavarri could not follow.
The storms raged and the seas rose in Yavarri’s grief. She dashed ships and flooded our villages, and thousands died. But after seven days, the flood retreated and the sea stilled like a pane of glass, and in the waters we saw the lights, as if Yavarri’s rage had spilled the constellations onto the waters. As flowers sprung from the tears of land goddesses, so too did our goddess’s tears give rise to life. It is this life that we see blooming every summer.
To those who don’t worship our goddess, the water is dangerous, for those who touch it are drawn to it irrevocably. Maddened, they wander deeper into the water, yearning for touch, for another body pressed against theirs. The bonds and restraints upon their hearts fall away; they fuck those around them, riding each other in the water, or if they are alone, they touch themselves. Yavarri’s tears bloom around them, bright with their feverish need. In these times, the light seems at its most beautiful.
Those touched by our goddess’s tears are like animals in heat, and in their delirium, there is nothing but lust. They forget everything but the endless lust that blooms within them. They would fuck until their bodies break and bleed, but in truth, their rutting rarely lasts that long. The waves sweep over their heads and the waters fill their lungs, and they do not care.
This is her revenge. This is her longing for her lover, and her desire for his return.
Even a touch of spray against a sailor's lips will drive them into a frenzy, sending them diving from their boats into a drowning embrace. Sometimes, fools also come who want to marvel or study at the properties of our waters; we do not mourn them when they drown, clawing at each other in their need.
In the morning after the blooms of our goddess’s tears have faded, our villagers dive into the water to hunt for the dead. We find gold and trinkets in the waters and in the foundered ships, which we trade back to the inland. These treasures pay for our boats and the iron for our fishing hooks; they are the gifts of Yavarri, whose tears flow in the water around us, even when they are dimmed by the light of morning. Our goddess is generous to those who love her, to those who live their lives in faith to the sea.