On Oceans (Scroll down for photos)

For the entirety of my adult life, I have lived by the ocean.  It isn't something that I did intentionally, but rather, it just happened.  I chose a college in Santa Cruz, not for the beach or its proximity to it, the ocean wasn’t part of my planning at all.  I was going for the school, for the program, and because of friend of mine said she would go with me.  When that friend ended up going somewhere else, I had already begun making plans.  There was no backing out at that point.  Cabrillo wasn’t just my first choice, it was my only choice.  In all honesty, the reason I chose Cabrillo probably had to do with the fact that it was a junior college I knew about that was away from home.  Mostly, that it was away from home.

And then after Santa Cruz, it was San Francisco, not for any particular reason either, other than that I wanted to live in a big city.  In California, that means Sacramento (ick) or Los Angeles (double ick, especially when you consider the proximity to family.  There’s this urge that happens when you’re young to get as far away from any blood relation as physically possible.  Also, I hate LA).  That left San Francisco.  And at this point, yes, the ocean came into my thinking.  Id been living on the coast for three years, it was important to me to maintain that bond.  Because theres something that happened to me on the ocean. 

I had moved to Aptos, to a small apartment about a ten minute walk from the waves.  Over the past two years, I had formed a bond with the ocean.  Any time I wasn’t feeling particularly good about myself, anytime I was down or lonely or upset, or when I just needed some time in my head, I would go to the beach.  Usually Seabright, because of its proximity to where I was living.  I walked to New Brighton a few times while living in Soquel.  I biked to Capitola a few times, when I was actually biking.  It was just there, not something we did very often, just something that was open if I was bored I had an afternoon off, or I had that constricting feeling in my chest like I just needed to get to the ocean. 

But one day, after I had moved into my apartment in Aptos, I walked down to the beach.  There were two paths you could take, one which followed the cliff to Seacliff State Park, and another path which snuck down the side of the cliff, switchbacking across a cordaroy path of broken stairs and rocks beneath damp trees and greenery so fresh and beautiful, you might forget that there were roads not two minutes away from you.  I was afraid the first time I walked that path, not sure where it was leading or who else might be on it.  A few runners went past me. 

But eventually (and by eventually I mean after about three minutes) it let out onto a bike path that in turn led to Seacliff beach.  It wasn’t a particularly sunny day.  There may have even been a bit of fog, though that may be the fog of a memory almost four years old.  I remember the sky was orange and pink, and that the tide was so far out and the beach so flat and smooth and glassy that you could see the reflection of the sky in it, so that the whole place was awash with red and gold.

I skipped rocks for awhile, my shoes and sweatshirt discarded some fifty feet away, forgotten.  I collected rocks, filling my hands until I couldn’t feel them for the cold, and I flung them into the ocean and watched as they skipped and jumped across the choppy water.  I learned to time my tosses so that they perfectly coincided with the flat of the wave, so that the rocks wouldn’t be swallowed by waves.

I rolled up my jeans and wandered into the water, letting it touch my toes, keeping it below my ankles.  And then up to my ankles, then the back of my calves, then my knees.  Up to my thighs.  I waded in until I was waist deep in the ocean, not caring that it was freezing, or that it was getting dark and therefore colder, or that I was fully dressed.  Not caring that I couldn’t swim, or that people were watching.  Because for some reason, each wave that crashed against my legs felt like a touch from some unknown… whatever.  Felt like arms welcoming me home.  Felt like love and comfort. 

That was the beginning of it.  From then on, I went as often as I could.  I don’t think there was ever a week that passed when I wasn’t down at the waters edge, skipping stones or just walking.  I tried running for a bit, but, less face it, that was a ship I was never meant to sail.  Harbor porpoises were my constant companion as well, their little fins peaking out like little waves from another world.  Sometimes even dolphins would show up, moving through the water.

I remember saying goodbye to the ocean, as well.  I went in shorts and a bathing suit, I threw myself into that water like a lab chasing a ball.  I felt the water around me like a blanket, holding me and wishing me well, sending me off. 

I went to the ocean in San Francisco after my first week.  I thought I would feel that kinship again.  I hoped I would, anyway.  I knew I would need it.  I had come to rely upon it, upon that constant companion of the faithful ocean, always there for me.  I went to bakers beach, took off my shoes and walked down the freezing beach to the waves.  I let it touch my toes. 

But it wasn’t the same.  It was just water.  There was not that familiar feeling of being greeted by an old friend.  Only the sound of the waves, the cold of them.  The water felt greasy, it smelled like oil, and it made foam that I didn’t even want to touch.  There was no soul. 

I didn’t go the ocean very often while I lived there, only occasionally if I was going for a walk and my feet carried me there.  I went to the bridge a few times to watch the dolphins.  My favorite game was to stand at the railing and wait for a tourist to approach.  Once they were close enough, I would beckon them over and point at the dolphins frisking down below.  Then, once I had heard their excited murmur, I would walk away and not look back. 

And then I moved to Chico.  Landlocked.  Yellow.  Soulless in a way, though nowhere near as bad as Baker beach had been.  I took every opportunity I could to visit the ocean, even Baker Beach, anything for a view of the sea.  Anything if I could just glimpse a view of that friend I had come to know so well, only to abandon. 

And now I am here.  In Swansea. 

I went to the beach for the first time a week or so ago.  I just walked down after class, wearing sneakers and long jeans and socks and a backpack.  I took my shoes off, even though it was freezing, and stuffed my socks into their toes.  I walked down to the water, which was at high tide.  I had noticed while walking past that when the tide goes out here, the beach grows almost a quarter of a mile.  It is massive, a wide expanse of sand and shoals as far as the eye can see. 

But on this day, the tide was in.  It was only a few moments before I was standing at the waters edge.  I wasn’t sure what was going on.  Everyone was wearing shoes.  Maybe it’s the Californian in me, but I couldn’t understand.  I wondered vaguely if there were some biting insects that might hurt me.  But I didn’t care enough, I just went on barefooted, feeling the shells under my feet, the soft shift of sand beneath me. 

I walked to the edge, right up to the very line where the water met the land, and then I stepped forward. 

The waves rushed towards me like open arms, wide and welcoming.  It didn’t matter that it was freezing.  It didn’t matter that I had never been to this beach before.  It only mattered that I was home, and this beach was welcoming me.

View from the road.

Halfway across the beach looking towards town.

Halfway looking towards the ocean.

Shoals

Some sort of weird kelp, it felt almost like fabric.

Clam diggers make these all over the beach.  If you look hard enough, you can see where he set the bucket down, lower left hand corner.

More shoals.