Sara Abraha, a 2025 Carleton grad, recently had her piece “How the Ocean Holds Me” published in Earth Island Journal. In it, she discusses the transformative experiences she had on her Off-Campus Studies Program, Coral Reef Conservation in the Caribbean. The program is offered by the Sea Education Association and explores “the impact of human action on Caribbean coral reef ecosystems, the importance of coral reefs to island communities, and a full range of reef conservation strategies” (sea.edu).
The article published in Earth Island Journal (reprinted below) is a reworked version of an essay Sara wrote for SEAWriter during the program as part of her “SEA Environmental Communications” course.
How the Ocean Holds Me
Sara Abraha
As I slipped beneath the surface, the world above me faded, muffled by the water that welcomed me. The gentle waves rocked me back and forth, their rhythm steady and calming — a pulse beneath me that mirrored my heartbeat. Sunlight filtered through the water, casting golden beams that danced across my skin, illuminating the reef beneath me. I closed my eyes and let myself float effortlessly, weightless. With each slow inhale through my snorkel, I felt a deep sense of peace, as if the ocean itself was breathing alongside me.
I opened my eyes and kicked gently, gliding forward with slow, deliberate movements. Below me, the reef stretched out like an intricate city, full of twisting coral structures and hidden crevices where parrotfish grazed and damselfish darted. A school of sergeant majors swam by, their black and yellow stripes flashing as they moved in perfect unison. I let myself sink slightly, feeling the weight of my body give way to the ocean’s gentle pull. I reached out, fingers grazing the water in front of me, wanting to get closer, to feel more, to absorb every detail. Remember this, I thought to myself. Remember how the ocean carries you, how the water hums softly in your ears, how the light flickers on the ocean floor. Hold onto this moment as if it were the last.
Because part of me was afraid that it was.
Beneath the surface, much of the coral was pale and lifeless, its skeletal remains a stark contrast to the vibrant marine world I had imagined. I had expected color, bursts of reds and oranges, purples and greens — but what I saw instead was whites and grays, a graveyard of what once was. I knew what this meant: ocean acidification, rising temperatures, and the resulting coral bleaching — all things I had studied. But I had never understood their emotional weight until this moment as I floated above a reef that felt more like a memory than a living world. It was one thing to read about it in scholarly papers, to analyze graphs and statistics. It was another to be suspended above the damage, to witness it firsthand, to know that the place where I had just found peace was slowly dying beneath me.
This snorkeling trip, near the pier in Frederiksted, St. Croix, was one of my first in the Caribbean. I was here as part of a six-week study abroad expedition that had brought my peers and me from Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where we spent weeks learning about coral reefs in the classroom and through visits to local marine labs and research institutes, to the Caribbean, where we could see them up close. We moved across four different islands during the trip, studying reefs that are struggling to survive in a rapidly changing world. We measured ocean pH levels, recorded oxygen concentrations and fish populations, and surveyed coral health, each piece of data adding to the larger picture of what these ecosystems are enduring.
I was here to understand the world beneath the waves, to study it, to document what was happening before it was too late. But no graph or dataset could fully capture what I was seeing with my own eyes.
The Caribbean, a region that bears the weight of colonialism, exploitation, and economic dependency, is now on the frontlines of a crisis it did not create, and the crisis is manifesting everywhere. Earlier, we met with locals whose livelihoods are built on the ocean and who now struggle as fish populations dwindle. We spoke with the historian Lennox Honeychurch and artist Elisa McKay, who each painted vivid pictures of what the reefs once were, drawing from memory, experience, and cultural knowledge. We met with marine biologists who are tirelessly fighting an uphill battle to restore damaged reefs; they walked us through their facilities, shared their work, and explained the challenges they face in the field.
As I floated above the fading reef that day, their stories flooded my mind, their voices layering over the quiet hum of the ocean in my ears. I began to understand that the fight to protect these reefs was not only about the science. It was deeply personal. It was about preserving a way of life, a culture, and a future that seemed increasingly uncertain. The reefs were being taken, piece by piece, by threats that no one person or community could combat alone. It was clear that the people combating these threats — from plastic pollution to industrial run-off and the worsening effects of climate change — have contributed the least to them.
And yet, amidst the loss, there is resilience. The work I witnessed — whether it was that of the conservationists at Nature Island Dive in Dominica replanting coral nurseries, local volunteers with East End Marine Park in St. Croix pushing for marine protection policies, or researchers at the Anguilla Department of Natural Resources sharing knowledge with the communities most affected — reminded me that while change is not immediate, it is happening. That there is a commitment to collective action to save our oceans. There is hope in these efforts, in the persistence of those dedicated to restoring what has been lost and protecting what remains.
Thinking back to that early experience in the water, I remember the feeling of wanting to hold onto the moment forever. But I know now that holding on isn’t enough. The ocean gave me peace, gave me wonder, but what can I give back? I can carry forward the stories, the lessons, and the urgency of this moment in time. I can be a part of the ongoing work to protect the reefs, to share what I’ve learned, and to advocate for those who are fighting every day for the ocean’s future.
The reefs are not gone yet. They still pulse with life, still offer their beauty and wonder, even if it’s harder to see than it once was. Our work has just begun.