The ocean.
Waves, relentless waves. Even in sleep I can hear the rhythm and thumping of the surf, the hissing and murmuring of the sea’s eternal song.
Water beyond the reach of view, an awesome wonder to anyone who tracks the solitary beaches at sunset.
Sand melts beneath my feet.
The incoming tide might hurl a guest or two over my toes.
The ocean looks at first to be a pristine and wonderful place—and for the most part it is.
It’s the end of all rivers—a funnel for what man has assumed is out of sight and mind.
But the waves bring the irresponsible actions of man and heave them upon the beaches as they do the empty clam shells and those wonderful protective houses of other ocean creatures we collect and bring home.
These same shells usually end up in a fish tank or on the bathroom shelf. Apparently, we connect the shells with water; in truth the circle is complete, for water—all of it—returns to the sea.
Just as we return to the sea almost instinctively.
For nearly 20 years, I have sojourned along the coasts of North and South Carolina for two or three weeks out of the year. From the thunderous surf of Nags Head to the quiet reaches of Charleston, I have followed my summer vacation path along the Southeastern shores.
The ocean holds a bounty of fish—fish that are willing at times to take the proper bait or lure or fly. In the vastness of what seems like endless waters, myriad life forms scuttle across the floors of silent seas—a tribute to her resilience, her renewal, her spirit, and her strength.
As for the mighty deep, her nature of taking fish through cycles is an enigma.
The sea seems to know that when there is a crash in blues, stripers or whatever, that man will target other species as she, somewhere unknown, rebuilds her bounty.
Yet, old salts know that things are not quite the same.
Along the strand at Myrtle Beach, the familiar traces of man at dusk are cups and cans left behind in the knowing that high tides will carry the debris away.
Meanwhile, the shorebirds scatter before me like white ghosts, and sand fleas scurry for cover.
Sea gulls, singing their raspy song, are cruising just beyond the breakers, where they dip and dive, taking only an occasional baitfish.
The sun dying on the edge of the world makes me wish that the camera could record what the eye sees.
Perhaps that is the escape so many of us seek from the sea, even in our dreams.
Before heading home to the mountains, I gaze on the snowy breakers, upheaval waves, and relentless surf.
The ocean, after all, has more important things to do than thrash about with questions.
She is far too busy to take on such time-consuming tasks…
—
Top o’ the morning!