Where the Waters have Taken Me.
I have swam in the sharp, cold Waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I have kayaked the Penobscot Bay and marveled over a sky dripping with stars. I have crossed a country by car and sank my feet in the Pacific Ocean, on the cusp of sunset. I have eaten cheese aged inside caves from the gorges of Cheddar, England while sitting dockside on the Bristol Channel. I have soaked my sunkissed skin in the Mediterranean Sea. I have been brought to tears between two Continents on the Bosporus Strait, while the sounds of the call to prayer echoed from minarets in every direction. I have leapt off that same ferry into the dark murky waters of the Black Sea. I have swum at 4 in the morning across a lake and back, along with the Loons. I have sailed, fished, and trawled the waters of the Long Island Sound. I have peered over the edge of the Cliffs of Moher in to the expanse of Galway Bay. I have run barefoot across sharp rocks and jumped headlong in to the Aegean Sea, thrice, after being immersed in the 120° hot springs of Eftalou. I have pressed my hot skin to the sands of the Gulf of Mexico, let the waves lap the heat from me, and skimmed through the Everglades on an airboat. I have raised and lowered sails on a 200 ft Schooner in Cape Cod Bay. I have snorkelled reefs, touched the slippery backs of manta rays, and jumped cliffside in to the luminous waters of the Caribbean Sea. I have bathed nude under the full moon, in a pond full of friends after emblazoning the night sky with fireworks. I have rowed until a season’s worth of calluses peeled off and bled endlessly against my oar at the Head of the Housatonic Regatta. I have drilled holes through 12 inches of ice on Dauphin Lake in Manitoba Canada in search of Walleye. I have snowmobiled across a frozen Horne Pond in Maine during an ice fishing tournament. I have white water rafted thundrous crests down the Kennebec, and through the Zoar Gap, Deerfield. I have kayaked and camped a three day journey down the Connecticut River. I have knee boarded, water skiied, slolomed, barefooted, sailed (and capsized), canoed, tubed, and windsurfed my way across lakes throughout New England.
This summer, I cruise the Baltic Sea from port city to port city on sea highways that Vikings once rowed. I’ll press my hand against a Swedish warship.
For all the salt my skin has touched, and all the land-locked seas I’ve swum. For every drop of water collected in pools and lakes and ponds. Where my toes have dipped in the places that oceans have begun; I am endlessly grateful for every adventure I’ve been on.
As I sit and reminisce about the memories I have won, I think about all that is left in life to be done.
Each fresh set of waves that come, marks a silvered passage in time. Leaving the shore, over and over, with a new demarcation line.
As the tides pull in and out in accordance to the moon, I remember the very first time I heard the calling of a Loon. Mournful moans across placid lake as the night was set to depart. As if it were painful for this creature and the moon to be apart. I awoke thinking “What a way to start; to greet the sun in somber tones, while longing for the dark.”
It has been years since I last heard the calling of the Loon, but every morning I wake and know I’m closer to being there “soon”.
Because the water holds a special place, I seek it everywhere I go. In time we find each other, waves sloshing remembrance to and fro. An ode to all the memories we will sow.