The Retreat

A sunny day beckons me toward the water…a day spent picking my way through emerald strands of seaweed and retrieving mollusk shells washed up along the shore, enchants my senses.  

The sea breeze, tinged with the scent of saltwater and fish, tousles my hair.  I inhale deeply and fill my lungs with the comforting perfume of the ocean.  As I wander along the coastline, my bare feet leave fragile footprints in the sand, only to be washed away moments later by the tide.

I walk further down the shore to a spot tucked just under rocks worn smooth with the passage of time and the crash of waves against their granite faces.  Right there, deep within the cliff side is a little nook, just large enough to sit comfortably in and listen to the wind sing her song to the sea.  The sea answers back with claps against the shore.

I sit back against the cool rock, watching a sailboat pass by; its tall white mast billowing in the breeze.  I spot seals bobbing their glistening black heads in time with the hungry cry of sea gulls.  It’s as if the two are dancing in concert to the waves and the wind. Brightly colored buoys dip up and down announcing the presence of lobster pots below.  A seal surfaces with a fish in its mouth and a greedy gull dives for it; but not quickly enough.  The seal has submerged once more beneath the briny waters with its feast. 

My senses are enveloped by everything around me; the salty-sweet perfume of the sea air, the feel of the cooling spray off the waves crashing against the jetty, and the booming call of the cormorants as they jostle amongst themselves for the best vantage point. I close my eyes and am lulled into contentment by the water as it rushes into and then back out of the alcoves below me.

The sun shines high in the sky, warming my face and arms and casting diamond-like reflections upon the indigo waters of the Atlantic Ocean.  The constant motion of the tide reaching out to the shore is reminiscent of ancient sea lore filled with tales of mermaids frolicking in the surf, beckoning men into her inky depths below.  Poseidon himself could not have created a more magical setting.

My legs stretch out below me and inadvertently loosen a few stones.  I pick one up and turn the grayish-brown rock over in my hands.  I notice several specs of quartz that catch the sunlight and seem almost gem-like.  I marvel at how many millennium the rock has stood the test of time against raging storms, wind, snow, erosion, and the footfalls of humans treading upon it.  

I am tempted to take the rock home and place it in a jar, alongside the numerous other glass jars of varying sizes, filled with sand from every beach I’ve ever been to. Among my jars of sand and rocks are nestled pieces of blue, green, white and amber sea glass, shells, sand dollars, and small pieces of driftwood I’ve gathered over a time span of more than two decades.   I look down at the rock hesitate for a moment, then decide against placing the rock in my pocket.  Instead, I pull my arm back and cast the ancient piece of granite into the sea.  It’s caught by the foamy whitecap of a wave and sinks below to rest on sandy bottom of the sea floor. 

Reaching into my knapsack I withdraw the familiar black and white composition book and slide the pen out from between the crisp white pages.  I secretly wish I could sketch the panorama before me; the gently rolling ocean, waves capped in white, sea gulls that dip into the water hoping to catch a silvery fish, the funny-faced seals that taunt the angry gulls, the craggy rocks that jut out from the coastline into the water and the cerulean sky that borders this scene.  I will have to make do with words as I am unable to translate what lies before me into something visual through strokes of an artist’s pencil.

Hours, how many I can not say, elapse, as pen passes over paper, capturing every movement of the ocean and nuance of the swells, the silky breeze against my skin, and the feel of the rocks pressing against my back and legs.  The sun begins its descent into the western horizon.  Only then do I look up to see the presence of dark bluish-purple clouds looming overhead which threaten my peaceful retreat with furious bellows of thunder.  

I slide out from my niche among the rocks as the first cool splashes of rain slide down my forehead. Crystal clear droplets dot my eyelashes and dance along my lips.  Thunder explodes overhead and is joined by tendrils of lightening which illuminate the clouds in an almost eerie and ethereal manner. The wind joins the cacophony with howls of rage and whips the sea into angry froth.  The lightening reaches out, almost serpent-like, to the water below and goads it on with a heated kiss.

I make a hasty departure across the dunes toward my home where I sit and observe this remarkable ballet of nature and its orchestra of the elements from within the safe walls of my study.  I settle back against the soft leather of my chair, surrounded by vestiges of other walks along the shore; row upon row of glass jars filled with bits of the shore, and listen as the rain pelts the windows and the thunder beckons to the wind.