John Masefield’s poem resonated in my head in anticipation, and then in reality, as my primal urge was again fulfilled in an almost annual event. Time and time again from childhood, when brother Charles or sister Carrie would load kit and kin into ladened cars and head to Virginia Beach, to our families Nags Head and Myrtle Beach outings, I feel the call to the ocean.
Last night, in reflection, I thought to myself about what was my favorite moments. The ocean lived up to its promise of power and wonder in its constant pounding of surf against sand, and the sand still permeates clothes, skin and hair, the sea gulls still squawk as I remember. Or maybe it was my early morning three mile tricycle ride under the canopy of live oaks with an occasional spiked, scaled palm tree pushing through the leafy bower for its place in the sun. It could be that grownup grandchildren prepared scrumptious dinners for us all, or perhaps it was witnessing the phenomena of porpoises driving schools of fish to shore and chasing them up on the beach to feed.
I loved all of the above, but the thing that brought a smile to my lips, as I lay dozing last night, was letting a small fifteen-month old boy hold my finger as he tottered over the beach, chatting an unintelligible conversation (except to mothers and grandmothers) as he pointed out an occasional dog, or a sea bird, or the ocean and allowed me to see my beloved ocean with new eyes.
As John Masefield said.” I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls flying.”
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