La Mer

Surf 5, 2006

I grew up within a few hundred yards of the ocean. For every sunny summer day I remember with dolphins frolicking near the shore, I recall at least two winter nights when the wind off the ocean howled across roofs and through screen porches, the salt spray sizzling on the power lines along Atlantic Avenue.

I’m not terribly adventurous when it comes to the ocean. For all the time I’ve spent on and around the ocean I’m still uncomfortable when I’m out of sight of land. I’ve seen the Atlantic cripple ships and roll onto the shore with such energy and fury that it washed away giant sand dunes, flooded roads and took whole houses out with it when it receded.

I’ve seen sea life both large and small tugged ashore in the folds of fishermen’s seines. I’ve body surfed with sand sharks, been surrounded by playful dolphins and watched whales feed just offshore. I’ve inched my way through fog so thick you could barely see a few feet in front of you. I’ve been stung by jellyfish and bitten by crabs. I’ve been present when a plane crashed into the ocean, when a Navy ship nearly drifted ashore in a storm and when at least two people drowned.

Surf 1, 2006

But I still love it, and can’t imagine living where I couldn’t go down and see it whenever I wanted. I once seriously contemplated moving to a large city on the Mississippi River, but concluded that, among other things, a mighty river, even one as wide and powerful as the Mississippi, did not an ocean make.

I have this theory that the ocean is for coastal people what the West was for people of the 19^th Century, a great wind open space and psychological expansion valve. The view is sweeping, it’s always changing and it’s big enough to swallow whatever stress you might be feeling, while also reminding you what an inconsequential speck of life you are in the grand scheme of things.

People who grew up around mountains find comfort in the close hold of mountains. I’ve heard people from the Southwest complain of feeling claustrophobic when they come east. “All those trees!” they whine. “They’re so constricting.”

Sure, we complain about the heat, the humidity, the jellyfish stings and the crab bites. But I’ll take them over an old mountain any day.