Letters from Beneath the Waves
A few weeks ago, I decided to become a stingray. Let me explain.
Growing up by the shores of Ras Sudr along the southern coast of Sinai, I had fallen completely in love with the sea. Those quiet mornings with the tides carving the sand beneath me while the sun would cast the mountains with the most delicate of golds. I could walk amongst the ancient reefs on the shore or, when the wind was right, row with my cousins to the reefs just beyond them. Here, away from the sounds of civilization, I was at home, lost in a world I thought I’d never see—a world which, even then, I could hardly wait to explore.
Looking back, I realize it was in the joyous innocence of those early years that my love for beauty—for the laughter of nature—was planted. Quietly. Unknowingly. Yet always there. In many ways, it shaped the person whose words you’re now reading.
That being said, there had to be a spark to kindle those early flames. For me, that spark was my dad—a man who showed me just how far wonder could truly take you. Almost every weekend, we’d pack the car and take the 200 km journey from Cairo to those sacred shores. While he spent the day reading on the beach, I’d venture out, bucket in hand, and go where the sea would take me, until, when the sun had finally set, I’d come home and tell him all my adventures. I’d always name the places I discovered; from exploring the treacherous rock pools of “Devil’s Cove” to shell hunting at “Lunar Bay”, it was nothing short of heaven for a curious mind. He, in turn—usually over a dinner of fish and calamari—would regale me with the stories of Sinbad and his seven voyages, of the perils and wonders of this mythical being, of a man who, much like how I saw myself, was born to the seas. From that day on, between the pages of those stories, my world would only grow richer.
It’s therefore little surprise that in finding this same wonder in another’s eyes, I was overcome with a longing to share my own stories—the voyages that shaped me—with them. To have a story find its readers is one thing, but for it to live within them long before they can understand it is an even greater treasure. Though perhaps more remarkable was that this person was not a fellow traveler or a seasoned voyager—but my three-year-old cousin, Gamila.
From the first time I saw her, there was something—different—about her eyes. How they appeared to question almost everything around them: watching, wandering, dreaming. At times, they almost seemed to smile, as if behind them lay a soul already aware of the world—of its joys, its riches—even without the words to articulate them.
As I watched her grow into this bright, curious little girl, I was amazed to find part of my younger self—that same knowing, inquisitive gaze—perfectly mirrored in her own. The way she lit up whenever I showed her my pictures or told her of the strange animals I’d found below the waves was, quite miraculously, how I remembered feeling when listening to my dad all those years ago. In the excitement of the worlds he created, hungering for their mysteries and the magic they instilled, I’d found the person I was born to be. And in finding a soul who carried that very longing, I decided I wanted to give her a world of her own. But where to begin?
It was then that I found the voice her story deserved.
One morning, as I was going through some old boxes of childhood memorabilia, I came across a worn, stuffed, blue-spotted stingray. Her name, as I remembered, was Emily. From the time I was given her, she had always been my closest companion—a friend I could spend hours with, alone in my room, telling stories about almost everything. Yet, as life so often does, in its demand for seriousness—for reality—I’d grown up, almost forgetting her entirely. Until that day.
Then and there, I knew it was finally time to find her a new home.
The following Friday, on our visit to my grandparents’ home, I gave her my Emily. No sooner had I told her the story than her eyes brightened, and she ran excitedly to her mom and everyone at the family table, telling them what I’d just given her. I doubt anyone besides the two of us quite understood the immensity of such a gesture—but I knew that the first chapters of her story were only just beginning.
As we sat together, she had a million questions on her mind: “Where did Emily come from?” “Where were her parents? Her friends?” “Could I go with you one day and meet her?”
All of which I found myself answering—not as a myth—but as a world that I, too, believed in.That evening, I promised to bring her even closer.
As fate would have it, two weeks later, I found myself diving on the reefs of Marsa Shagra in the southern Red Sea. Desperately trying to find Emily’s mom, Emma, I went two days with no luck. Then, on the final day of my trip, as I was returning to shore, I found her.
There she was gliding across the sand, in all her beauty—that golden eye peering into my lens—a living tribute to the world I so wanted to give her. At last, just as I had found my story, her myth could be made real. Not only would I return with a picture to give her, but a sea—with all its characters and adventures—that she could, in time, make entirely her own.
Back in Cairo, I spent the next three days writing a letter to her from Emma. Knowing just how inquisitive she was, every detail had to be in place. Everything—from Emma’s voice and tone, to the stamp and address I designed for her envelope—had to be as believable as could be. In a way, I had to become Emma. To embody her in every word, every line, so that even with the passage of the years, her voice could always endure.
As a writer, it was both a challenge and a kind of privilege to venture into that myth—to become a wise, motherly creature from a place far beneath the waves, writing to a special little girl almost a world away. It’s something that, through my own experiences, I thought I’d forgotten how to do.
But as each word fell onto the page, I found myself not only writing to her—but to the quiet, dreamy-eyed boy I had once been. One who, I realized, carried the same lightness in his eyes. What follows is the letter I wrote as Emma, a voice from the sea. A voice I hoped would live in her heart the way stories once lived in mine.
24 Bryozoan Way, Marsa Shagra, Egypt
Tuesday, April 8th, 2025
My Dearest Gamila,
I hope this letter finds you well and in high spirits. So wonderful to hear from you at last! You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been meaning to write to you since your cousin, Seeno, told me about you. Though I must admit it is difficult not having hands like you humans do. Also as you can imagine, we Stingrays don’t get a whole lot of letters out in the blue. Luckily, Seeno here never misses a trick and I’ve asked him to write down everything I wished to tell you in talking with him. First of all, I must say how delighted I am to find how quickly you and my beloved Emily have become friends. She was indeed very lonely here on the reef and so it brings me the greatest joy to hear that she’s found someone as kind and loving as you are. Even more exciting is that you’re both the same age! In fact, Em is just about to start her first year in Ocean School, just like you. Though we have yet to meet, I already see a girl who is unlike any I’ve heard of before. Someone with a heart as deep and boundless as the sea itself, with a smile that can brighten even the darkest of storms. Who longs for the beauty of this world, who carries a soul far beyond her years. Know that humans like you don’t come around very often.
I’ve seen many a traveler venture beneath my waters yet few who ever see the wonder that I picture shines so brightly in your eyes. That alone tells me everything about the kind of person you are, a shining little polyp still learning who she’s meant to be. I also know that Seeno sees in you that very same spark-I can only dream of what he’ll teach you as you get older. It may surprise you that I met him when he was not much older than you, a shy, curly haired little boy, who wanted nothing more than to explore the oceans. In him I saw the very same desire to understand, and to dream that I already know burns within you. During our encounters over the years, I watched him grow into the person you see today, and though he certainly had his own challenges, he never lost sight of the wonder that inspired him. While you may be too young to realize just yet, It is a gift I truly hope you’ll cherish in time. Wherever the tides of life may lead you, no matter where you are, a little ray will always be waiting. Until we meet beneath the waves!
Love,
Emma
As humans, we are born to create. We long to breathe form into our imaginings, our hopes, our dreams—not merely for the pleasures of creation, but to imbue life, even in our darkest hours, with the joy of connecting to something that transcends it. We may be born, we may live and die, but our stories—for those who still remember—always remain.
And perhaps one day, when she reads that letter again, she’ll understand the gift she unknowingly gave me: the chance to return home to the sea, and to the boy who first loved it.
