The Yearning

The sea haunts my footsteps. Wherever I go I hear the shushing of the waves on the shore echoing in my ears. Capricious, at times it rages, battering my soul with its fury as it crashes against the land. Sometimes it seems almost joyful, rolling its waves exuberantly over the sand and splashing the spray to glitter in the sunlit air. On calm days it shimmers like crystal, barely moving, hardly breathing, snoozing in the heat.

In dreams it follows me. It floods my dreamscapes, lurks on the horizons, pulls me down huge sandbanks to its merciless maw. I wade through waves in places that should be safe, dry, away from its reach. I chat blithely with strangers before a blazing dream fire as the ocean throws its strength against the windows, its saltwater oozing through the cracks, roaring for attention, roaring for me.

I live balanced on a precipice, between the two worlds. It is all I’ve ever known, the sea a constant presence in the back-ground of my life. I could never leave to live in a place where it could not reach me. I couldn’t bear the distant roar to be the sound of traffic instead of the pounding of waves; feet hitting hard concrete with every step, toes yearning for the softness of sand, nose searching for the tang of salt in air filled with fumes. My soul is tied to the ocean; to leave it would mean leaving a part of me.

My childhood is filled with memories of endless days at the beach. Hot sand and cold spray, sandwiches gritting between my teeth, and bottles of warm orange squash. Hours spent hunched over rock pools, searching for creatures under stones and in crevices. If I stayed perfectly still, tiny hermit crabs would appear like magic, small shells sprouting legs and bustling along the sand. A tiny civilisation revealed by the retreating tide to exist for but a few hours felt like a gift just for me. Winter days fighting against the wind on stormy days, the sand whipped into a frenzy, flinging itself at my face in a fury. Bitterly cold still days, the surf barely moving, as if the water itself wished to hibernate and wait for the warmer weather.

Now I take my own child to  the beach, still searching for the same treasures, showing him the wonder of the tiny worlds and the power of the surf. The sea guards its riches jealously, reluctant to relinquish them, but occasionally it shows a piece of its wealth. Tiny sea glass glitters and delicate shells glisten in between pebbles, carefully collected by our eager hands.

Timbers from sunken ships peek out beyond the rocks, offering the solution to their mystery to those brave enough to seek it. Every few years, the remains of a Bronze Age forest, tree trunks cushioned by thick peat, are uncovered at very low tides for a lucky few to see, only to be swallowed again.

I’m drawn back to the shore again and again. I stand with my feet in the icy water, foam frolicking around my ankles, beckoning me forward. The endless horizon stretches out before me, a promise of limit-less possibilities. The retreating waves suck at the sand under my feet, pulling, pulling.

Could I go? Could I shed my human skin and plunge into the waves, sleek body arrowing through the water and dancing with the current? I could know the mysterious depths, the wide-open nothingness teaming with life unseen.

One day I will give myself to its restless churning, willingly and completely. I will join with the surf, dance with the fish and rage at the shore. But for now, I must remain in the in-between, never really apart yet not complete. Comforted at its closeness, yet yearning for more.

The sea haunts me and I welcome it.