Coastal Living

When I lived on the coast for a short time in my early 20’s with two roommates, I found the ocean life depressing. Or maybe it was that particular house set away from the life of town. IT seemed as soon as you went down the road that led to our house you entered a conclave. The paved road bared no shoulder and allowed just enough space if you drove slowly and carefully, for two cars to pass each other. Most of the homes were decorated with birch trees, flowers, and landscaped gardens. The edge of the road that ran parallel to the ocean had grown a fence of wild roses, as if even it did not want foreign people to our neighborhood to trespass. Even the sign left as a mark post for public access had begun its descension into the leaves and shrubs that grew around it promising that the beach would remain a neighborhood secret. Yet, it didn’t seem like a conceited place, reserved only for wealthy. It seemed instead an old Maine relic refusing to let out of staters rape it of its ways.
On many days I would carefully scale the cliff from our rental home and lower myself to the rocky shore below. Armed with a sweater, for the weather was always colder and foggier, along this shore than in town, I would begin walking over stones, sometimes jumping over seaweed or small estuaries.
It was during this time I discovered the captivating sadness of the ocean. There was no one to share my walks with, no lover to kiss under the setting sun, no reason to walk along the beach in moonlight.
On occasions when my sister visited to enjoy a hike and picnic on the coast we would sit and talk of the ocean’s beauty, how lucky I seemed to be in getting such a cheap rental in Belfast. In those moments I would try to express to her the other side of the ocean and my fear of it. “Just stare, “I’d say, “at the water. Not the rocks or shoreline or sailboats. It’s as if the water is purposefully dark, like it’s trying to conceal its own depth. “We watched together, a slight smile on my sister’s face. The waves rolled in gently with a calming sound, lulling us into a trance like a mother rocking with a child on her breast.
“I don’t see it.” She’d say. “It’s just too beautiful to see anything bad.” I can see my sister saying this as she tilts her head back letting her hair loose in the wind, she closes her eyes and breathes in the air full of seaweed, sand, and shells.
“But, don’t you feel it?” I ask. “It is like it wants you to come into it. And you are fooled into thinking that it will be warm and safe, that the water will cloak you and keep your body floating with some sort of magic. “My eyes remained on the water. “It’s evil. There is no bottom and it will put you to sleep with its rhythmic rocking then gently pull you under. Those waters are cold. It’s like it needs your warmth.”
“You are seriously crazy.” She laughed.
But, really it is my deepest fear. Having no Earth under my feet, surrounded by cold darkness and there are no arms to pull you safety. No chance you’ll survive this one. Your lungs scram for air and your arms and legs numbed through with the cold barely assist in an effort to make you live. And you want to live. The fear of drowning, the pain you are sure will come when you lungs fill with water push you to the brink of madness and desperation. But, there is no fighting your involuntary need for air. Your mouth opens independent of your demands, and you take in water that sears in your lungs. Such intense pain right before you die. Your body is limp and hangs alone in the water. There is a haunting vacancy in your eyes. It’s over and you are alone in the dark, a few rays of sunlight glinting off the water above you.