Wave, Pulse

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

~~~~~

I miss the sea.

I grew up in New England, on the coast, with a stint in Florida for added flavor. Not until I moved to Redneck Central in my middle teens was I ever land-locked - there had always been the sound, the scent, the sight of Mother Ocean somewhere nearby.

Summers spent on Martha's Vineyard with family (hold-overs from whaling days and times before the island became a playground for the rich and supposedly privileged) meant weeks on end of beach and boat time. My father's small house had one bedroom, a bath on the hallway, a wee living room, a small kitchen, and a constant sound track provided by the ocean that I could see from his back door - if distantly. A twenty minute or so motorboat ride would have my feet on the sand, feeling the rhythm of the water as it met the land.

I slept in what could loosely be called a shed, separate from the house and largely weather proof, my own little haven that today might be called child neglect but at the time I loved beyond measure. At night, rather than use the house toilet, I would find a patch of poison ivy to pee on. Thunder storms were rare, and awesome when experienced in a garden-shed sized space made of MDF and shingles.

Calm or stormy, I went to sleep hearing the susurus of surf in the distance. No sleep can compare to one accompanied through the night by that lullaby.

I cherished those summer weeks because they were the only time I had with my father and the ocean.

On rare occasions, he would take me out on his boat. I loved that. On one journey, we were floating out in deep water, relatively motionless, and we were joined by a basking shark. The shark was longer than the boat (32 foot, as I recall), and still in the water. It was almost surreal. I wanted to get in the water with it - they are vegetarians - but my father wouldn't hear of it. Captain runs the boat, so I stayed dry and encounterless, but I'll never forget how beautiful and terrible it was.

While I very much enjoyed swimming off a boat in deep water, the beach was where most of my polliwog time was spent. I would swim in water that could keep beer perfectly chilled and be sorry when it was time to come out. I would swim in glass calm seas or dive through waves that kept more timid swimmer on shore. I was pulled under and pounded in the washing-machine plenty of times, but never got out of the water because of it. I never met a wave I was afraid of. While others would be on the sand eating lunch, I swam. Building sand castles? Nope - swimming. Tanning? I was the only kid in our town who could spent weeks at the beach and still be fish-belly white.

Water, particularly the sea, is sacred to me. It is a place of healing. It is, I truly believe, where I will die in the distant future, swimming home at last.

I miss her, Mother Ocean. Don't get me wrong - I love Redneck Central and am happy to be living here...but my heart and soul are salt tinged and my pulse thumps to the deeper songs she sings, and I will always be most peaceful, most serene, most whole when on or near big water.

What about you? Where does your heart yearn to be in the quiet moments?