The Murmur of Waiting Waters

The estuary wasn’t just speaking. It was weeping. And as always, it did so softly—with a whisper few are willing to hear.

Some days, Baja California Sur folds into itself—as if the peninsula were breathing slowly, like a sea creature drifting under the sun, with no intention of arriving anywhere. Today was one of those days.

I walked along the edge of the San José Estuary at low tide. Everything was exposed: roots, trash, bones of what once was. The water had receded like a discreet veil, revealing not only the minute life in the mud, but something deeper. A truth that’s hard to face.

The murmur of waiting waters isn’t silence. It’s a warning. As if the sea were whispering: "What you see now was always here. You just chose to notice only when it shimmered."

A fisherman stopped me. “When the tide goes out, the estuary speaks,” he said, not letting go of the net in his hands. “It’s when the water leaves that the land tells us who we are.”

I looked around: shattered bottles, orphaned sandals, plastic bags caught in mangrove roots. But also: tiny surviving snails, shy crabs poking out, birds pecking the mud in search of life.

The estuary wasn’t just speaking. It was weeping. And as always, it did so softly—with a whisper few are willing to hear.

I thought of us then. Those of us who come here in search of peace, sun, beauty. How easy it is to love this place when the sea is full. But how much do we really love it when it withdraws, when it reveals its wounds?

The murmur of waiting waters is also the murmur of a future yet to be written. There’s still time. Time to clean, to listen, to care. To not leave the burden to the next tide.

Today, the estuary reminded me there is no beauty without truth. And that every low tide is an invitation: to look deeper, walk slower, and listen to what the water has to tell us—before it comes rushing back in.

— Sebastián del Mar