My Oldest Friend... the Ocean

A typical Cape Cod beach

“The Sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.” --Jacques Cousteau

Lately, I have been dreaming of the ocean nearly every night.  My dreams are vivid. I see lighthouses and shining lights on the shore.  I even dream of the briny scent and can feel the wet sand squishing between my toes in my dreams.  It is physical.  It’s as though I am visiting an old and dear friend.  When I awake, I am simultaneously happy and sad; happy to have had such a glorious night of dreaming and sad that the night didn’t last longer.

I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long.  If we're in each other's dreams, we can play together all night.  ~Bill Watterson, Calvin & Hobbes

 I grew up around the ocean.  It has always been a part of my life… the backdrop for everything else.   It has been the friend that is always there, providing endless entertainment, bountiful meals and steadfast comfort.  When I moved to Montgomery, I knew I would miss my friends and family but I didn’t count on how much I would miss the sun coming over the early morning horizon, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, the scent of the brine and the moon casting a golden path across the water.  It is a stark reality for me that this part of my life is not so readily available to me.  A void has been created.

As a child, the beach was my playground.  In the winter, my sisters and I would sled down the snow covered bluffs, skidding to a stop on the sandy beach.  We would drag our sleds back up the 100+ rickety wooden steps and breathlessly pile back onto the sled (sometimes three of us at a time!) and fly back down.   We usually did this until eventually Mrs. MacGregor would come out of her house and yell at us that we were eroding the bluff.  We were kids; what did we know/care about erosion?  It was just pure, unadulterated fun for us.

In the summer, my mom would send us out of the house in the mornings and tell us to stay outside until dinner.  My sisters and I would grab a towel, something cold to drink, and a book and “trudge” 100 yards to the beach.  We would spend all day swimming, walking from one rocky point to another, looking for sea glass, shells, starfish, sand dollars, driftwood… all forms of beach treasure.  We loved to walk to Manomet Point looking for the seals that sun themselves on the rocks.  We would stop along the way to dig up the red clay from the bluffs, spackling ourselves from head to toe, all the while espousing the healing and beauty qualities of the minerals in the clay, not caring one bit how wild we looked.   At dinner time, we would come back up to the house, sandy from head to toe, sunburned, happy and hungry.   

Each summer, for probably seventy years, my family has traveled from all over the United States, Japan, and England, to meet up in Woods Hole.  Some come earlier in the season and some come later, but eventually, nearly everyone makes it to the tiny seaside town.   We are fortunate enough that some relatives (way back when) obtained ocean front property, including a small, stony but delightful private beach.   Our summer days are spent lounging on the wooden deck, we call the bandstand.  The bandstand overlooks the bay, which provides a marvelous vignette.  Some relatives lounge on their Adirondack chairs and chit chat about all nature of subjects.   Some of us catch up on reading; some swim from the dock to Toad Rock (this has become a traditional annual swim) or to the wooden float that beckons some 50 feet off the end of the dock; some lay towels at the end of the dock and sun quietly, soaking in the tranquility that the ocean provides. 

Every Sunday at 6:00 p.m., rain or shine, the clan gathers on my cousins’ large lawn (which overlooks the ocean) and we cookout.  Sometimes five people show up and sometimes forty people show up, but someone always shows up.   This family gathering requires no invitations; the ocean is our gracious host and we are always all welcome.

My friends and me on Duxbury Beach... a day of antics

As an adult, my beach days are different from those of when I was a kid.  Sunny Saturdays are the best.  All of my girlfriends start to plan for the coming weekend around Wednesday.  Any hint of a rainy weekend will send us into a group depression.  However, should it be a sunny weekend, it is game on.  We all rise early in the morning and pack our coolers full of ice, any manner of drinks and snacks.  Those of us without beach stickers (you would only not have a beach sticker if you don’t have a four wheel drive vehicle!)  coordinate with those who have beach stickers and we drive out to Plymouth Beach or Duxbury Beach for a fantastic, relaxing but social beach day.  A day on the beach beats any night in a bar hands down.

I have always harvested from the ocean, clamming with my friends and family, gathering succulent crabs, picking mussels and periwinkles off of the seaweed covered rocks.  The ocean was the best kind of garden; it is self-sustaining, bountiful and full of surprises.  We never knew what we would find along the shores.  Some days we would find a rock covered with mussels, fighting with the barnacles for space; other days, we would find crabs.  Even if we couldn’t find mussels or crabs, inevitably there were the tiny, but delicious, periwinkles we could pluck up and bring home.  Periwinkles were our version of escargot… boil them up and serve them with garlic and butter, pull them out of their shells with pins.  Tiny treats… what could be tastier?

Each year, for years now, my sister Kalliope and/or my friend Laura have bought shellfish permits.  What a wonderful  joy to walk over the clamming flats in bare feet, feeling for the tell-tale lumps beneath our toes and then digging like mad for the delicious treasures.  

One of my fondest memories is clamming all day with Kalliope and my niece Olivia, then going back to Kalliope’s house and cooking clams and linguine (with leeks, white wine and butter).  The smell was outrageously enticing.  The flavor was pure Heaven.  We laid a picnic blanket out on her sunny deck and ate until we couldn’t move.  It was glorious.

Laura and I have clammed many a time… spending hours digging away side by side, walking and talking.  How the time flies when you are having fun.  We would always bring the clams back to her house, shuck them, squeeze a little lemon on them, add a dollop of cocktail sauce and suck them back.  There is no match for the flavor of the sea… briny and crisp and fresh. 

 I have celebrated nearly every 4^th of July with a bonfire, friends and family on the beach.  The day of July 3^rd, most of the abled bodies in our neighborhood, gather up armfuls of kindling at the top of the 100+ steps leading down to the beach, walk carefully down the stairs and pile the wood onto the growing mound that will eventually become a magnificent bonfire.  Waiting for the sun to go down and the fire to be lit, is always excruciating.   It is like watching water boil… it seems to only happen if you look away.  Finally, though, around 9:00 p.m., someone throws gasoline on to the giant wood pile, lights a match and the bonfire flares up.  It is so large, that it looks as though the orange flames are licking at the stars.  All the neighbors gather around, watching the bonfire, dodging sparks, hot ashes and smoke.  The annual bonfire is the only time of the year, where everyone in the neighborhood reconnects.  Every year I have ended up speaking to someone who I had not talked to for years before.  We may not have much in common but we do have our love for the beach and fondness for the bonfire.   We watch the fireworks exploding over the ocean, illuminating the night sky.  From one rocky point to another, there are bonfires every several hundred feet that other neighborhoods have built.  It is a community tradition that brings everyone together.  There is no party room or setting that can compare to the beach.

The ocean has always been a haven for me as well.  There have been times in my life when I have been sad or needed some solace.  The ocean has always been a place where I could go to (my happy place if you will). It is a place where I could walk the shores or sit on a rock and stare out at the horizon and let my mind soak in the beauty and wonder.  Eventually, my thoughts calm and some perspective gained.  Whether the ocean is calm or turbulent, it has always been there, like a true friend, helping me to get through those less-than-perfect moments in life.  The ocean has been my nature's therapy.

“The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea.” --Isak Dinesen

In the meantime, I search in my new home state for a place where I can find my “ocean.”  I’ve taken to gardening in my backyard and hosting our own Sunday cookouts for our friends and family here.  I don’t think that these will ever take the place of the ocean for me (nothing could) but they are joys for me. 

There are mountain people and there are ocean people.  I have always known that no matter how beautiful and majestic the mountains are (and they are!), the ocean holds a special place in my heart.  Like an old friend, I may be geographically distant, but the ocean will always be there, waiting loyally for my return.  Until I can return, it is heartening to know that each night there is another opportunity to dream.