Learning From Tides
I return to the sea because it sustains me. There are landscapes that remind me of how small I am in this vast world. Some people prefer mountains and their towering presence, snow-capped, or dotted with green. For me, the sea has a language. It speaks of our origins in salt and water, powerlessness against the elements. It tells the story of an entire ecosystem thriving below the surface–aquatic life both vast and microscopic. To me, the ocean is a living, breathing world. I’ve never been deep-sea diving but I’ve snorkeled through schools of rainbow-colored fish and otherworldly organisms, some spiky and foreboding, others asymmetrical and elusive. What I learn is the universality of life–whether a blob of color or the vastness of a killer whale. I’ve seen giant mammals breach with a grace unparalleled by a ballerina. I have watched seals cavort in the waves, sometimes in tandem. I’ve offered a beached starfish a second chance at life.
In the winter, the beaches are deserted. A beach walk has the kind of silence hard to find except in wild places. I leave footprints in the damp sand, watch seagulls scavenge for scraps, usually carcasses of fish. There are no tourists, no hamburger wrappers or water bottles littering the sand. I imagine beaches were once this way–pristine and lonely. The cacophony of the surf is a symphony, heavy on percussion. I never tire of its rhythm as it recedes and gathers strength for a crescendo. The air is cold and there is always wind. Wind batters, blusters, and stirs up a landscape. I respect its power.
When I go inland, land barriers close around me. It’s as if I’m in a canyon or cave, no matter how undeveloped or gorgeous the landscape. Although I’ve only piloted kayaks, canoes, rowboats, and small outboard vessels, I feel as if I could escape by boat. I do not know what I’d be escaping from or where I would go, only that the sea is an open hand and a promise.
When I leave the sea, a part of me always remains. Like separated lovers, I pledge my loyalty. I leave a strand of hair, a shell, footprints that the tide obliterates, stones and glass buffeted by brine and churn. There is a yearning to return. I need that odor of salt and decay, moody skies that mimic the variable colors below, and the noisy marriage of foam and energy.
I do not know why I’m called to this landscape. As animals, we cannot always articulate our desires or instincts. I’m drawn to wild inlets and coastal towns, the crystalline gleam of sand when sun breaks through. In my dreams, I’m always walking barefoot at the edge of the water.
Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor 