I may let you know in regards to the memento seashell I used to be given as a baby, how I hushed the room and held it to my ear, keen it to sound of distant waves, straining to listen to all I longed to know of surf and spray and salt. Or in regards to the highway journey, at 18, that lastly introduced me from a landlocked state to the ocean, how I stood agape on the sight of a lot water.
I may let you know how I stated “sure” on a seashore, on a day too chilly for swimming, each of us too sunburnt, too younger to vow one another something, and but. I may let you know of my first evening within the metropolis we now name house, after I woke within the morning to the cries of seagulls, and the way, these 10 years later, the saltwater has softened me.
I may let you know what the bay appeared like on the day my mother referred to as from a hospital hundreds of miles away to explain my father’s respiratory. And the way, when all of it felt like an excessive amount of, I went to the water.
I may let you know about each time I’ve unfold my seashore towel on sand, grateful to put my physique down on its heat. And all these summers tenting on a grassy hillside, sleeping in whereas the marine layer rolled over the islands and the harbor seals surfaced under us within the cove, the cheerful slaps of their flippers within the waves.
And the way I paced the boardwalk within the rain, forwards and backwards, hoping labor would start and reminding myself to breathe. Or the evening our child slept by means of {an electrical} storm that blew in off the coast, how I pressed my nostril to the glass of the window and watched lightning streak the sky. And the sensible flash when the transformer blew, then all the pieces went darkish.
I may listing all we’ve discovered there: the ocean stars and bull kelp, the moon jellies and mussel shells, the sun-bleached plastic automotive our daughter dug out of sand, and respite once we wanted to get out of the home and fall into an ideal distance, to really feel ourselves a part of one thing bigger.
I may let you know how we’ve introduced our infants to the water, how our pal who loves the ocean has taken it upon himself to dip their toes in, a baptism of kinds. I may let you know of the grains of sand caught within the cracks of automotive seats and the tub drain. Concerning the clump of seaweed our son carried house in his fist. And our daughter’s assortment of seashore glass, which she retains atop her dresser, boring little gems that clink collectively in a washed out jam jar.
I may let you know about all the vacations we’ve marked with seashore walks and heat thermoses, the slices of birthday cake we’ve shared at sundown. Or about plunging into frigid waters mid-winter, on the cusp of one thing, and shivering on moist sand with adrenaline and chilly hope.
About how I look forward to the timber to lose their leaves annually so I can see the ocean once more on the finish of our road, an outdated pal.
I may clutch a stick and write all this within the sand, look forward to the tide to rise and fall, and pay attention for the waves to whisper again. “Your flip,” I’d say to the ocean, and imply it.
Inform me about a spot you’re keen on. The place do you come many times?
Kaitlyn Teer is an essayist and a contributing editor at Cup of Jo. She teaches artistic writing and lives along with her partner and two children in Washington, by the Salish Sea.
P.S. The mind-clearing magic of cold water swimming and how sweet is this beach proposal?
