The ocean has always been my sanctuary. When a crappy week unfolds or I'm feeling out of sorts and need to realign—off to the coast I go. There's something about the air's scent ... salt mixed with ferns mixed with damp soil from the nearby forests. It's the way your surroundings grow foggier, or more clear, the closer you get to the land's edge. It's the smallness of the towns—you know, the ones with a single gas station, one or two coffee shops, and a handful of restaurants. It's breathable. Fewer choices bring less commotion, less head static, less anxiety and stress. And you can't put a dollar on that kind of thing. It's life at its best. It's the kind of life you inhale, chest widening, muscles relaxing.
But as with all things, there's a dichotomy. For while the ocean can be a sanctuary, she's also restless, unforgiving, and filled with mysteries we haven't even come close to understanding. She's kinetic energy unfurling in a vast pool of froth and fury, simultaneously pulling and repelling everything in her wake. And it's this exquisite, untamed, wild, wild juxtaposition of a soul that I'm endlessly drawn to. Because in her, I see myself.
The parts I know well, and the parts I don't understand at all. The parts I'm proud of, and the parts I fear. In her rhythms, I feel, and discover, my own.