Love and the Metaphorical Sea

The ocean is a part of me and forever will be ... from my days as a tow-headed little girl on the Carolina shore clad with only bikini bottoms and a shovel for a day of adventure, through an adolescence of walking the wide, flat beaches of Kiawah Island, to my time as a busy mother who yearns to go to the sea but has not been in awhile.  The ocean washed away bitter tears the night my father died and the ashes of my dear grandmother, scattered by my mother and me, at sunrise under Johnny Mercer pier.

For me, the ocean is God’s most powerful natural tool to tantalize the senses.  I love the way the sea sounds as it crashes to shore.  I love the brackish smell of salt water.  I love how the sea feels – warm and encompassing—around my skin as I dive in after a long run on shore.  The ocean comes closest to the sensual perfection two lovers can create.  But, if I’m honest, I am frightened of it as well.  

My protective instincts as a mother make me wary of the sea.  When I took Ben swimming in Wrightsville in 2007, swollen and pregnant with James, I remember how tightly I held on to him and how unwilling I was to let him venture out too far on his own.  I wrestle with how to teach my sons to both embrace and fear the sea—especially when almost equally in my life I have feared it and been drawn to it.  When I have experienced much of my life’s greatest pain on the shores of it and have spent many of my life’s most sensual, happy moments there as well.

I have often thought when I am old, I would like to build a home on the sea and fill it with books, and recipes, and wine, and guest bedrooms … and live out my waning days watching the tides come and go.

In September, along the Carolina shore, whether the hurricane pattern for the season is bringing storms to the Gulf, along the Florida coast, or up the mouth of the Cape Fear River, the waves and the undertow are unusually strong.  But the warm water is perfect for those strong swimmers willing to brave it.

When I lived in Wilmington in 1999, I went with friends to Masonboro Island by boat in September.  It’s an uninhabited island south of Wrightsville, perfect for camping or picnicking or long walks.  As we sat on the shore, eating, drinking, and enjoying the hot, windy day, I noticed the waves getting bigger and bigger.  When I stepped into the water—where the small waves usually lap at your feet gently—I was almost knocked over by the strong tide.  

To this day, I’m not sure what got in to me, but I decided to swim past the wave breaks so I could float in the deeper water.  I fought wave after massive wave and noticed that the forceful undertow was moving me further and further down the beach, away from my friends.  It was hard to judge how far down shore I was drifting because the usual markers of civilization – hotels, houses, and water towers -- were not there to help me judge.  For whatever reason, I felt certain that if I could just make it to the deeper water, I’d feel safe.

I did finally get past the waves.  I floated in the warm water for a long time-- a little weary from my journey, a little drunk from the wine on shore, a little overwhelmed by the powerful sound of quiet, the warmth on my skin, the taste of salt, and the beauty of it all. 

I am not sure what awoke me from my floating half-slumber, but I remember the abruptness of the change from contented bliss to fear.  Fear of the swim back to shore, fear that I had strayed too far, fear quite simply of the ocean.  It was jarring. 

The fight back to shore was much harder than the swim in.  Every time my tired arms and legs would make 10 feet of progress, the current would pull be back.  For a moment, I even felt panic.  Could I make it back to shore?  Do I even want to go back to shore yet?  I felt peace past the waves ... the kind of naked, pure peace you can only feel in deep water.

When I finally got to a point where I could stand, I paused for awhile—caught my breath, looked over my shoulder at the waves and the place beyond them.  I entertained swimming back for awhile.  But my arms and legs were shaking from the exertion, and I realized I did not have the strength to go back. 

I waited for the next seventh wave and rode it in.  It was massive and foamy, and it deposited me with a thud onto the shallow shore of broken shells and sand.  When I stood in the knee-deep water, I was disoriented, dizzy … I felt a little bit broken.

I waded back to the beach and began the half-mile journey back to my friends, our picnic, and my wine.  I was a woman in search of her towel … in search of a place to rest, to pick seashells out of my shoulder, and to stare at the ocean I do not understand and marvel at her from the safety of shore.