A relationship with the sea.

Aah, the sea. Not the beach. The sea. The smell of salt and seaweed, the sound of the breaking waves, sometimes soft against the shingle, at others wild and raucous against the rocks. Its power, its moods, its life, its mystery. And the sight. The infinite expanse of blue, or green, or grey is calming, an old friend who is always there, welcoming you, lapping like a kitten at your toes, yet commanding a reverent respect.

Having lived by the sea for the first half of my life, it is something which has always been and will always be part of who I am. I don’t think it’s necessarily true that those who have been brought up by the sea long for it more than those who have spent very little time there, but speaking for myself, I do miss it. Interestingly (or not), I can’t even swim that well. I can stay afloat, and doggy paddle my way to safety, if safety is ten metres away. I can’t dive either, never had to. You can walk into the sea, and if a situation arose which required another method of entry, I suppose I’d just jump, and try not to get my head wet, in an absurdly comical fashion.
I remember, at the age of twelve, having swimming lessons in a pool. All the cool kids were doing lengths. I was with the remedial group, attempting to do widths, with the ubiquitous white, rectangular, polystyrene float. The best bit was when our sadistic teacher threw a brick to the bottom, which we had to retrieve. Being in the shallow end, and being more or less tall for my age, I attempted to succeed in the exercise by reaching as if my arms were Mr. Tickle’s, (that beloved children’s book character) in order not to put my head under. It didn’t work. But I did learn a valuable lesson in deception. Splash about a bit and pinch your nose while the teacher is watching and you can get away with not actually doing anything. Ohhh, time’s up? Well I’ll try again next class. (Incidentally, it was the same with “handstands and cartwheels to finish” in gym. Unable to perform either, I’d try to look as if I were preparing myself every time the teacher looked. Probably didn’t fool anyone. But hey, I was good at running.)

Anyway, back to my roots. There is a nostalgia for our roots we inevitably feel at times. It’s not just familiarity, although that is a great part. The smells, the ground you trod as a child, the memories invoked are all part of that feeling of nostalgia. Of course, you can’t live off nostalgia; it is a bittersweet indulgence. But there’s more. A need to feel connected to something which will always be yours and never judge you. A link to who you are when you feel lost. You can change, you can develop as a person; it doesn’t mean you don’t need your past. Your past is what makes you who you are in the present, whether or not there are certain parts you choose to reject or embrace.

There are times I think of what it would be like to live by the sea again. Where I live in Spain is as far as you can get from the coast in the whole of the country. Good choice. There’s a river, but it’s not the same, is it? That said, the thought of the effort it would be to up sticks lies in direct opposition to the thought of being able to hear the sea from my bedroom window even though it’s not an impossible dream. If I really wanted to, I could go, couldn’t I? But I would risk disappointment. Is the grass always greener?

I suppose I have to be honest. The sea is probably a dream, and all the better for it. Maybe one day I’ll get back there. For the moment, I have a life to live, in the present. And when that’s over, there’s that romantic notion of having one’s ashes sprinkled in the ocean. Just make sure they check which way the wind’s blowing.

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Episode 6: Curious Words D to F