There are multiple reasons to keep me away from the ocean. My unusual skeletal assortment of joints and angles constitutes a complex geometric equation that results in, once you add water, the buoyancy of a bowling ball. That’s a big one. Another is that my complexion is reminiscent of a sheet of notebook paper. When I walk on a midday beach, I hear a faint sizzle and picture God as a grill-master in the sky with a giant spatula and one of those aprons that says, License to Grill. Years ago, my wife and I went to Cabo for a wedding anniversary and rented a beach bed, which sounded lovely until I discovered it had slats instead of a canopy cover. She turned around from tanning in her beach chair to discover me levitating in a sideways plank on the side of the bed in an attempt to find shade in the shadow of a two-by-four. (I’m skinny, so it wasn’t as crazy as it sounds.)
And yet, baffling though it may be, I love the ocean. I love the foamy waves and the constant roar. I love the pelicans diving for dinner and the surf crashing on the rocks. I love the ocean breeze and the peculiar aroma. I love the seashells and the seaweed, and the helplessly happy humans at play. I never saw an ocean until college, but hell, my first cassette purchase in high school was Billy Ocean (“Love Zone”), so maybe it was destiny.
Now let me be clear: I don’t need to be in it, on it, or under it. I admire the seafarers and the surfers, but they aren’t me, and I am not even slightly jealous. My love is suited for the sidelines, so give me the times when normal people are less likely to be there, say a sunrise or a sunset, and a lazy walk or simply staring at the grace of it all.
I’m not exactly sure what would make a pasty sink-hazard adore the ocean, but I am far from alone—just head to any beach and see who shows up. I think it has something to do with the dream of a life without limits. That there is something beyond comprehension out there, beyond what we see, that endlessly keeps reminding us, through all our senses, that there is more than we can ever know. Yes, I think that is what it is for me at least.
Last night, at sunset, my wife and I sat in Adirondack chairs gazing at the Pacific Ocean as the crowds dispersed for the day. She joked, “What time do you think they’ll turn off the waves?” I simply smiled in silence and considered the grace in believing that some good things never end.
Starting to Look Up 