Day 22: Alone Days

I first saw the Ocean when I was three years old. Not far from the shores that I now wander, my parents suited us up in Ogunquit where the beach, even 24 years later is miles long with the softest sand. They say I was terrified of the waves. That I crept toward the water only to scream out loud and rush back as the salty surf hit my toddler legs. And then I would turn around and do it again. From that day forward I've felt the combination of excitement and fear of the Ocean.

Naturally, I chose a College just a few miles inland on Cape Ann's rocky coast. Less innocent but no less intrigued, I would skip my classes and wander up the shoreline, climbing over boulders and dancing across private property. All to see the cresting waves and feel my heart race when the sudsy waters crashed up at me, soaking my clothes. I would smoke Black clove cigarettes until they left a bitter residue in my mouth and feeling very creative and mature, in a lonely sort of way, I would scribble in a journal, staring out at the water half-wishing I could shriek out loud and run for shore again.

The water has never removed it's hold on me. On afternoons like this one, when Rich is working and I am home alone, I feel the pull to wander down the sand. Che Gueverra in his Motorcycle Diaries said that the Ocean was his greatest confidant. That he could yell his secrets to her and she would carry them away in silence. I don't yell at the waves, but I do feel comfort beside them. I feel answers to questions that I cannot put into words, to questions I didn't know I had.

Today I wandered down to the cove beside our house. The homes around us are mostly summer cottages, nearly all of them empty until June. This beach is mine. Today there's a family on my beach. A grandfather, two children and a man and wife. They also have a well-behaved dog who sits beside them. Who doesn't charge at the water or try to stare down the tide. I wish they would leave. I know it's selfish and not very loving, but I have claimed this cove. I wander toward the far end, where the rocks lead out to the river's jetty scanning the ground for bits of whatever- smooth glass or busted shells, waterlogged wood or colored rocks. When I look up I realize that I've wandered nearly into the surf and the waves pick up speed, covering my shoes (and socks) with salty (cold!) water. I dash back up onto drier sand, remembering my first encounter with the Atlantic. I wonder why I'm still a bit afraid.