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He led me to another aisle where a small stack of white coconuts rested beside prickly green nopal paddles. I grabbed the one on top of the pile, hurried to the cash register, paid two dollars for my coconut, and headed back out into the blazing California sun.

The last time I threw a coconut into water, I stood on a metal bridge over the Poca River with my mother. It was 2003, and her mother, my grandmother, had just died in India. 7,933 miles away in West Virginia, we performed a prayer at the altar in our kitchen, offering the coconut as prasad, a gift for the gods. We adorned it with vermillion powder, then took it to a bridge above the muddy, swirling river a few miles from our house, dropped it into the water, and watched it float away.

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In the lead up to this moment, I had imagined a solitary scene: Me wading out into the blue water alone, casting the coconut out past the breakers, then watching it float out into open water. Instead, I stood with Laura on the shoreline under an unforgiving sun, awkwardly holding a prickly coconut, trying to find an opportune moment to throw the coconut out into the water.

The coconut landed on top of the water with a resounding splat. Instead of sinking, or floating out to sea, it bobbled in the waves, then rushed back to shore when the next big wave came in, swirling in the sandy water before landing directly at my feet.

Laura tried, thinking her arm might be stronger than mine. Still, the coconut returned. There is a reason, it would seem, that Hindus submerge their coconuts in rivers, and not oceans. A reason that had escaped me until this moment.

We packed up our towels, trudged through the sand to our car. I took one last look at the coconut on the sand, water droplets clinging to its fibers, both of our forms facing the setting sun and the shining waters of the Pacific, before getting into the car and driving away. ff782bc1db