Nautique

They say the clothes “make the man.” Does the location?  I’ve often wondered if I could bring a sea-farin’ scalleywag such as myself to live in a place only inhabited by landlubbin’ sons of guns (apologies for the pirate-english).  Can I tear myself from the sea? It sounds like a dumb question.  Quite a recondite topic.  However, could I ever live landlocked?

I suppose.  Perhaps.  Maybe!  If I forced myself.  I’m sure that if I had no other option, yeah; I’d live in a landlocked area.  Talk to some of my friends, and they’ll say the same thing.  I think, eventually, where you live becomes part of who you are.

I’d like to think I have salt water running through my veins.  When I’m near the sea, the bay, the Long Island Sound, or any combination of aforementioned bodies, I feel so at home.  That saline smell, and that endless symphony of sound from crashing waves is enough to calm my bones and ease my mind.  Spent a lot of time there lately.  Lord knows I’ve needed it.I find myself shooting a lot of seagulls.  They are interesting.  Bunch of recalcitrant little critters; they endure all sorts of weather patterns.  When the snows fall hard, and perseverance is a rare commodity in other parts of the avian community, these buggers stand their ground.  When the wind howls, they lean right into it, hovering.  They withstand a lot.  I believe I’m drawn to them due to their resilience.  Ahhh, inspiration.

It becomes a part of who we are.  The sea, the shore, and its inhabitants.  I recently spoke to an old friend of mine.  We both grew up nautically.  Her father managed a marina, and we lived right down the street.  We were children of the sea, clamming at a young age, always being in the water. Water rats, indeed.  She’s down in Virginia, and although she likes it, I know she aches for that salt in her lungs.

It’s who we are, and I don’t ever plan on turning my back on that.

There is timelessness at sea, or on the shore; the constructs of humanity easily wiped away in favor of a more natural rhythm.  There is a feeling that will quiet you, if you let it.  It can take your pain, in all its fog and bewilderment, and make it clear.  Make it understandable.  The sea can provide you with perspective, but only if you let it.

The perspective?  That there is something greater than ourselves.  Take that however you wish.  Take it as a message on God, or take it as a message on size.  When confronted with something as capacious as the ocean, one’s problems seem to take on a smaller size.  That is, if you let them.

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