“Look at the sky. I think that right now we should go take a walk to the seaside. What do you think?”

Yes absolutely. We go right now because right now is moving fast. The wind picking up, the suggestion of sunset. Anyone who knows, knows that we need to go right now.

If I am allowed to grow older than I stand to be right now, then I rest easy knowing that there will always be certain mementos that I can take with me, regardless of whatever at all. No matter how rich or how poor we find ourselves, this planet has got stuff in it that we get to partake in free of charge. Stuff that’s beyond the control of anybody else. I am obviously speaking about the experiences that, once we grow older and really grasp that most of the stuff around us is garbage, these are things that have the greatest impact on our minds. Our overall constitution.

 For me, one such keepsakes is the sound of the sea. I can hear it right now from where I type this—even though I am located more than a stone’s throw away. Depending on the direction of the wind and the temperament of the salt water, the projection of its power can have a deceptively close effect like it has right now. And at this very moment, it feels like a gem at the end of the day. I get to listen. I listen and I smile. 

All of this might sound overly simplistic and cliché, but nobody can deny that there is a reason beachfront property is so expensive.

I remember being home last January. It’s the time when New England is still pitching into a deep freeze that eventually feels like it’ll last for six months. And come mid-January, you have arrived at the start of it all. That’s when I was home. But the redeeming aspect of this protracted time period is the stark beauty as a byproduct. You are afforded colors that have sharp edges on account of the low-slanting sun and the unmistakable hibernation of Mother Nature. This less-than-hospitable environment makes for a reduction in tourist activity but still offers plenty for those who stick around. The sea, in these moments (or should I say the ocean) emits nothing but less than “Locals Welcome” amplification for those who stop by to get a better look.

At home I don’t live close enough to the ocean in order to hear it from our front stoop. But we are still at a sufficient proximity that allows us to look up and know what kind of a night is brewing just a few kilometers away. If we see clouds starting to play in pastels, we know to hop in the car and take a ride to the beach. And the last time where I was home and Dad wanted to take a drive, that’s was exactly what was going on. He suggested we go because he saw the sky. He’s had eight decades of practice, and we knew not to doubt him. When we pulled into the Chappy parking lot, sure enough it was all there:  the low sun, the high winds, the flame colors and everything that meant the entire town would be at the water’s edge. They too have decades of winter experience on Cape Cod. And even now and an ocean away, I still remember the sound of that evening. I remember unfurling of the sunset.  

I know I have written about it before, somewhere else on this blog in a spot that I will not find with any easy effort. But the sound of the sea is something that became imprinted as a kid. Time spent out at South Cape Beach when we were small and the dunes felt massive. The chop of the high tide that felt tall and kicked so many little stones into your swimsuit that you came home with extra souvenirs that were only discovered and then forgotten about in the bottom of the bathtub.

And I am sure I have written about it elsewhere as well—but my adult brain also recorded the sea in various places. The ocean’s sound makes me think about all of times I went topside to take in the activity of the ocean as we sailed on long pre-charted PIMs. I didn’t appreciate it so much during daylight—only more once the ship has been darkened. It is only there when you can focus more on the sensory show going on around you. You feel tiny as you look up at the sky—you see everything from the aurora borealis to the Southern Cross and there is always the sea not far below you to offer a soundtrack. These are the things I carry with me each time I can hear the ocean’s roar. Even right now when the floor below me is not moving.

Even if I live decades longer than I do today, I doubt whether I will ever go to sea again. But it’s okay, so long as I am near places that offer me proximity. Why do I find this so important? Maybe it’s because I went for a run this morning, and could feel that I don’t have much more than 5 kilometers of good body with which to properly absorb the physical impact. As I get older, I appreciate the more simple things that can be easily relied upon. The experiences that endure, no matter what state we are in. The stuff that will still be around once we are long gone.

Of course I have no intention of cashing in my chips anytime soon. Indeed, if it were up to me, I’d be looking for more days like this one, and the ones that came before. To moments where I can be anywhere on the planet, and I can make a break for the seaside. To the ocean or to the lighthouse. If only to be allowed just one more immersive experience in something that I find intoxicating. Restorative. And I know that others have their own thing: maybe the sound of wind in the pines. Or something that I cannot ever imagine because I’ve only got my own body of experiences to bat around. Everyone has their own uniquely tuned frequency, and different places speak to them differently. To me this is the motivation that keeps us always on the path to exploration. You never know when you’ll stumble across something like the ocean in the airwaves.

When I was younger I thought that most to the things that older people wrote were boring. The energy was different, and I felt as though their thoughts were a waste of my space because they didn’t apply. As I write this now, I recognize that I get that this topic is exactly the kind of thing that Younger Megan would never have read—never mind written about. And that’s fine. By growing older, I am now more crotchety with little regard or rather interest for entertaining the faded thoughts of a younger person.  It’s a nice feeling actually—to slough off all that circuitous energy and discover indeed that a resting place exists. That resting place for me, is the sound of the sea. I can only hope that everyone else has their own, and are able to find it often.