Hermit Diary 46. Missing the Sea

Growing up in central New York State conditioned me to fields, forests, lakes, hills and river valleys. I was five when I had my first glimpse of the ocean, from New York harbor, but I wasn't actually on the ocean until I was 10, when my parents went on a deep-sea fishing trip off the coast of Maine with another couple and their son. We took off in a fishing boat and everything was fine until we anchored far offshore -- you could no longer see land -- and began to fish for cod with heavy-duty rods. I loved to fish and was excited to see dolphins, which we hadn't expected. My father and I hooked one large fish and were trying to reel it in when I began to feel the bobbing boat under my feet, and in just a few more minutes I was heaving my breakfast over the side. It was perhaps 9 in the morning, and I was wretchedly sick for the next six hours; when we finally got back to land I had trouble walking to the car, and vowed I'd never go out on the ocean again.

But some sort of fascination remained, and eventually got the better of me; my husband and I spent two summer vacations in Maine with friends of our own, and I was able to explore tidal pools and beaches on foot, and sheltered coves from a canoe. I've spent time on the Atlantic in South Carolina, Florida, New York and many parts of New England; the Pacific in California; the other side of the Atlantic in Cornwall and Portugal; the cold North Sea in Iceland and the warm Mediterranean in Italy, Sicily, and Greece. Oddly, during the pandemic, my thoughts have turned again and again to the sea. The other day in my studio, I pulled out a box of shells and other beach artifacts, and made these watercolor and ink drawings. All the shells here are from Block Island, off the coast of Rhode Island, where generous friends of ours have a house that we've been invited several times to visit. I spent happy hours on a rocky beach picking up odds and ends of seaweed, feathers, shells, crab carcasses, glass, and pebbles, knowing someday I'd want to draw them.

It made me happier to make these pictures, to escape into textures and colors that reminded me of places where I was both tranquil and curious. I know so little about the ocean, really. I'm in awe of its majesty and respect its power, and I'm drawn to its magnetically repetitive waves, its changeability, and the life it holds. As much as I love the calm, pastoral landscapes of my childhood, and find the woods and streams and lakes familiar enough to be unafraid there, day or night -- I know enough woodlore to probably survive quite a while in such an environment, if uninjured and warm enough -- my ignorance and unfamiliarity about the ocean keep me healthily cautious and aware. I like ferry trips, but I'm always a little nervous about getting seasick again, and the idea of an oceanic disaster seems more frightening to me than any air flight. I'd never go on an open-ocean cruise. Nevertheless, on the other side of every ferry trip there's always been something fascinating, and so much to see on the passage between, that I've forgotten my fears.

So why have I been thinking about the sea so much? I'm not sure. Some is wistfulness about not being able to travel, and wondering if I'll ever go back to some of the places I love, but I think it's more elemental than that. Maybe it's just a desire to sit and watch the waves crashing on the rocks, taking away my thoughts as I follow each wave like a breath, and then another: a desire for that renewal coming from somewhere I can't see, imagine, or understand.

Comments

[Peter]

I wonder if you're getting restless in your hermitage, and itching to travel; the sea implies change and movement and foreign-ness, things I imagine a frequent traveler like yourself would begin to crave after too long at home. Good luck, hang in there -- 2020 is almost over!

[Sharyn Ekbergh]

ah Beth, I'm a Cape Codder with the family tree going back to the very first white settlers, yes that little boat.I grew up with Mashpee Indian friends and it is ironic I had no idea of our history until I received my grandmother's family research. We still own the 1842 house my sister and brothers are in that's been in the family maybe since it was built. My great grandparents ran a grocery store from it. The older relatives worked making glass in Sandwich.
I'd say that growing up near the ocean ruins you for being truly happy anywhere else. We talk about selling our fantastic property here in the mountains and moving back but don't know if we'll ever do it. There are so many problems on the Cape now, over crowding, water pollution, future flooding. Our old house is flood safe but the rest of the town gets hit and the sand dunes that protected it have washed away.
Long story, long, long story.

[Roderick Robinson]

Perhaps you regard the sea as "cleaner" and "less infectious" than the land. Salt water is, after all, a mild disinfectant.

For me the sea became more important, more mystical, quite late in life, a mere 10 - 15 years ago, when I sailed with my late younger brother in his yacht, Takista, from Spain (actually Basque country) north towards the Vendée in France, and also along the southern coast of Brittany. I'd previously sailed in cross-Channel ferries and a transatlantic liner but this was the first time I'd been so close to the sea's surface, aware of its depth, endlessly changing colour, and restlessness. Too late in life to follow up this enormous discovery, when my brother died.

When I visited Rhode Island, on holiday from Pittsburgh, we collected shells from the beach. Despite the ruthless purging of our possessions prior to returning to the UK these shells somehow survived and now decorate our bathroom. Very superior shells.