Ink Tea Stone Leaf

People who know me know that I am not the most outdoorsy sort of person, nor am I the type to spend all his available time at the beach. My hometown and my taste in music aside, a more than ordinary susceptibility to sunburn taught me through bitter, blistering experience to be cautious around large, reflective bodies of water in the summer time. I feel much safer indoors, and when I do go out for a bit of summer fun, I take steps to protect myself. At least, I invariably regret it when I don’t.

In spite of this, for all my adult life I have been cognizant of a peculiar fact about myself: the idea of living any great distance from the Pacific Ocean fills me with dread. I simply can’t reconcile myself to a mode of living where a visit to the ocean is beyond the whim of a day trip. On Friday I asked Ariele if she’d like to go there with me, and on Saturday there we went. We left in the late morning, stayed for as long as we wanted, and returned home well before sunset. This is as it should be.

Now, the ocean is very big; unfathomably huge, from the perspective of our mere mortality. But although it covers more than seventy percent of the planet’s surface, it must be said that continents are quite large as well, and their scale likewise boggles the mind. Should you find yourself in the middle of either one and far from the other, would you not find yourself surrounded by an expanse that is limitless to your senses? You would, and if you’re a seaman or a cattle rancher that might not bother you very much. It would eat at me, though; I just don’t think I’m supposed to live like that.

What comforts me about proximity to the beach, then, is that it defines and reveals the limits of both land and sea. When I face west, I behold all the salt water of the world before me; if I turn to the east, there is all the dry land, or at least as much of it as I need for emotional security. I can see where one ends and the other begins, and in the rise and fall of the tides I can see them negotiate the specifics of their respective domains within a comfortable equilibrium. Then I can return home, turn my gaze back, and say “it’s over there, right where it’s supposed to be.”

I don’t need to see it every day. I’m not crazy about the traffic in beach towns, and I could get sick of the salt air smell. I’m perfectly pleased not to have to drive by “tsunami zone” signs every day. However, if I’m too far from the nearest ocean to be able to trust the local sushi, then you know I can’t stay there long.