High Time for a Vacation

I’ve been missing the ocean lately. Whenever I stand just on the border of land and water with cool white foam washing over my toes and eroding the warm sand right out from under my feet, I feel so much more myself. Thoughts wash over me by the ocean in waves of inspiration just as thrilling and deep as the water before me. And it’s always been that way, even since I was a little girl.

I remember when I was very, very young, looking out over the blue green expanse in sheer wonder. All around, there were other children knocking down sand castles, prodding dried up jelly fish or burying their parents in the sand, but I didn’t notice any of it. I was staring out over the sea trying to picture it as the very same waters in which at this very moment enormous whales were diving and breeching. It was the very same ocean over which ships captained by explorers had taken months to traverse. I was connected to all of it, the present, the past, and the enormity, right then just because those very same waters were washing back and forth over my toes.

Later that afternoon, exploration and marine life came together in a far less metaphysical manner. I commandeered a two-man rubber raft and squeezed in with my brother and cousin. When common sense personified by the two other passengers of the vessel begged me to turn back, I urged them to go just one bit farther. Secretly, I wondered how deep the rolling water had grown beneath us. I gazed at a distant shore with an unsurpassed thrill. Just then, a splash very near our boat made me turn once again to the horizon. My cousin had just seen an enormous tail slip back into the waves, but she was sure it had to be a shark. In sheer panic, I dove overboard and everyone else followed. Not logical, I know, but for some reason, it seemed the safest course of action at the time. Safely in our hotel room, my mom informed me that sharks don’t jump out of the water in that way. I had most likely encountered a dolphin as a visitor in the midst of its vast home.

My next trip to the ocean came sometime during adolescence. Once again, I stood in the gentle surf and gazed down the long stretch of foam. The beach was almost empty making the place feel almost magical. I truly felt as if anyone, even the most unexpected person, might suddenly appear on the horizon and walk along the tide line to meet me. When I pondered whom out of all people living or dead I most wanted to see, I discovered that it was my older self whom I desperately hoped would appear strolling along for a quiet seaside chat. There were, after all, so many questions I needed to ask her. Did she ever fall in love? Did she write any books? In what country did she live? How many languages could she speak? And most important of all, did she like me?

Years later, I did fall in love and marry. My husband and I spent our honeymoon beside the ocean. He’s more of a woods and lakes person, but he knew how much it would mean to me. On our first day, he encouraged me to swim with him out to a distant sandbar. Knowing he didn’t enjoy swimming like I did, and knowing he was probably thinking more of a swim in his Michigan lakes, I declined. He tried again believing this would be something I’d truly enjoy. “There might be sharks out there,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“There’s no sharks out there,” he teased.

“This is the ocean,” I told him and waved a hand over the churning water grandiosely. “Where do you think the sharks are?” This was my domain, and I reveled in sharing it with him; the mystery, danger, beauty, and excitement. Later that afternoon we met a coastguard pilot on the beach who mentioned a few six-foot sharks he’d spotted cruising along that very bar.

The next day we bought a few Styrofoam boogey boards and decided to stay close to shore. We were having a wonderful time until I announced that I felt something brush against my leg. “It was probably just seaweed,” Jeff told me trying his best to put on a show of enjoying the water for my sake.

“No, It was definitely fleshy,” I told him. It took two more of these encounters before Jeff actually felt one himself. When a patch of the reddish seaweed cleared, he saw for the first time that we were in the midst of a swarming school of stingrays. Needless to say, I forgot the time-honored wisdom of shuffling your feet in the sand on your exit.

Despite our close calls with nature, we both remember that week as the best in our lives. One night, over eight years later, when I felt completely overwhelmed and sleeping was impossible, Jeff ran his fingers through my hair and told me in a soothing whisper, “Whenever I start feeling too much stress, I just think about our week on the ocean. Try it.” I took his advice. I thought back on teaching him how to eat crab legs, our matching striped beach towels laid out on the sand, and floating in our rubber raft beneath the moonlight, and I was fast asleep in a matter of minutes.

Jeff says the lakes and forests are his favorite places in the world. He grew up right in the midst of Northern Michigan, which happens to be an ideal spot for both. The forest has always been my second love, but lakes never really appealed to me at all. That’s partially because I grew up in Tennessee and the only lakes I knew were little better than mud holes. When he first brought me to Lake Michigan I was amazed. There was sand, waves, and a watery horizon. This should be good enough, I told myself; this is just like the ocean. No matter how I tried to convince myself that I was standing by the sea though, my senses rebelled. The breeze was clean and fresh, but there was no nostalgic brine. The sand was smooth and warm, but it held no treasure trove of bumpy tiger claws, unbleached sand dollars, smashed conchs, or colorful butterfly shells that wriggled for cover after each wave. The water was safe and saltless, but it held no mystery, no danger, no thrill. Lake Michigan stretched as far as the eye could see, but something inside me reached out in hopes of feeling the boundless depths and broad expanse of an ocean and found land far too near.

Jeff has been undergoing a battery of personality tests during a year-long leadership program. There have been tests that categorize people by all sorts of details, but none that group them according to the places on earth that make them feel most alive. Why not? Doesn’t this seem one of the most telling aspects to a person’s nature? What if my ingrained longing for the sea is connected inextricably to the same inner passion for vastness, excitement, beauty, and connections to bigger things like whales and explorer’s ships? What if Jeff’s tranquility, contentment, and lack of a need to travel and grasp for things beyond boundaries is expressed in his love of lakes? What if both of us feel renewed in the forest because we enjoy shelter, quiet, the industry of creatures, and the music of birds? Are there people who think wistfully of a rolling plain or long for a high mountaintop?

Just two years ago, I stood in the surf and all the thoughts of all the years before rolled in and out of my mind. I pictured gigantic whales plumbing unfathomable depths and sails of ancient explorer’s ships billowing in the wind. I glanced down the strand and smiled wondering whether my younger self, the outgoing and awkward, confident and insecure adolescent would make an appearance. I wanted to introduce her to the wonderful husband who stood beside me and to the baby growing in my womb. What I would have given to glimpse for just a moment in that little girl, the energy, optimism and dreams which time had slowly mellowed in myself. I wanted to hug her and tell her how special she was and most of all, that yes, I did like her. Only, then I wondered, would she be happy with me? Would she want to know that she was just a Spanish teacher, a mediocre fiddle player, and an unpublished author? Would that idealistic and dream-filled little girl understand that she would someday be happy, very happy, even though she didn’t have a job in a foreign country or a talent that made her famous? Would she be all right with knowing even twenty years later, she would still be stretching and pushing her boundaries just like the constant ocean waves?