Okay, But What If We Did Get Our Hair Wet?
We’ve all heard it (or said it) before, a cultural shorthand passed down through generations: “Don’t get my hair wet.”
It’s said with a knowing laugh at the pool party, a quick refusal before a dip in the ocean. On the surface, it’s about preserving a silkpress, protecting braids, or avoiding a multi-hour wash day. But beneath the surface, the roots of this joke run much deeper. It’s a quiet echo of a fractured relationship with water… a relationship severed by history, by trauma, and by exclusion.
The stereotype that "Black people can't swim" is formed by a legacy of stolen coastlines, of the violent horror of the Middle Passage, and of segregated pools where our presence was met with acid and anger. The consequences are stark: according to a landmark study from the USA Swimming Foundation, nearly 70% of African American adults report having low to no swimming ability. This isn't a personal failing; it's the direct result of being systematically denied access to the very element that is our ancestral birthright.
As Chandrika Francis, the founder of our partner Oshun Swim School, writes in her powerful poem "Estuary":
We who have had our beloved water
Used against us as weapon...
We who have been stolen across waters
And tossed shackled into waters...
No wonder our respect turned fear
But the poem, and our truth, doesn't end there. It continues:
Yet we, like you beloved, have also
rained down
And overflowed
And purified and regenerated...
We celebrate you as sacred
We celebrate you as realm of ancestors
We celebrate you as life
Our miraculous return to you
And to each other
This is the heart of our journey. We are participating in a sacred and miraculous return. For us, as a queer Black community, reconnecting with water is a radical act of healing, joy, and liberation.
Nobody Holds Us Like Us: A Diasporic Homecoming
This journey is deeply personal for me. A couple years ago, I had a scare at a waterfall in the Dominican Republic, a moment where a deep-seated fear of water I didn't realize I carried rose to the surface. I didn't drown, because I was surrounded by a circle of protective, loving queer Black women. They held space for my fear without judgment.
Later on that trip, during a pool day, came a moment of uplift. I doggy-paddled from one end of the pool to the other, a small victory that I didn’t expect much attention from. As I made my way across, I started to hear the group cheering for me. A gesture that felt so generous that all the hairs on my body bloomed upwards and my heart expanded to fill my entire chest.
In that moment, I understood something profound: nobody holds us like us.
Our journey to Puerto Rico is a pilgrimage to a living, breathing part of our own sprawling family story. We go to listen to the soul-stirring rhythms of Bomba y Plena, the music born from the island's enslaved ancestors, and feel it resonate with our own heartbeat. We go to taste the history in a plate of mofongo, a testament to the resilience that turned humble ingredients into a culinary icon. We go to stand in places like Loíza, a proud bastion of Afro-Boricua culture, and feel the undeniable connection of kinship. We travel not to consume, but to connect.
Sweet Waters, Soft Landings: A Sacred Invitation
This deep sense of homecoming is the heartbeat of our upcoming trip: Puerto Rico: Sweet Waters, Soft Landings.
In collaboration with the visionary Oshun Swim School, we have curated an experience grounded in care, confidence, and celebration. This is your invitation to heal your relationship with water in a trauma-informed, Afro-Indigenous centered, and profoundly joyful space. It's a chance to be held by community, to build confidence in the currents with expert guidance, and to remember that water wants to hold you.
We will begin our days with swim lessons that are also lessons in trust. We will float in a bioluminescent bay, witnessing magic under the stars. We will ground ourselves in community service and connect with local culture. We will do all of this from a private beachfront villa, a sanctuary where we can rest, integrate, and simply be.
This journey is about the joy of getting our hair wet, the freedom of floating on our backs, and the power of returning to the water.
Join us as we explore the island's Afro-Caribbean roots and our own sacred connection to the water with intention, joy, and reverence.
