The ocean is my happy place. The beach, really. But I won't object if you offer me an ocean cruise on your yacht, either. I look good on a yacht.
In the years I have been Mommy I have found the beach to a place of peace and happiness. Kids can run and scream and blow energy and exercise and maybe even hit me up for an ice cream. It is also a place I can sit, and sit, and sit some more. I have to keep my eyes on the kids, but my ass can stay in my chair pretty much all day. Guilt free. That's a good damn day in the Land of Mom.
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| Yes, that's a yacht selfie. My life does not suck. |
From a more intimate perspective, I enjoy looking out to the sea and seeing what God gave us. The sun shining on the blue water. The waves and white caps. The sea birds swooping and floating. I like to think about whats underneath the surface. All the amazing animals and plants living and breathing in an underwater world most of us will never see.
At Harvey's beach in Connecticut Abby and I used to have long conversations about what might have swam during high tide right where we were standing at low tide.
I appreciate the science of it. The mystery and wonder.
Also, when I sit at the beach, looking out at the sea I enjoy relinquishing some control. Or all of it, depending on my mood. I enjoy looking at the vast,endless length, width, depth and thinking "I am so small. I am so insignificant on my own. This world is so much more than me." I don't think that in a sad or negative way. I think it in a very large and spiritual way. I am just one part of God's creation and His creation is so huge and grand and amazing and endless. I can't control this. I can only love this and continue to try and love and find joy and spread joy and be my best and ask the same of my children and husband. I can only love and be kind and find joy. That is my path. That is my job. This is all so much bigger than me, I will do my part and fall back on my Faith and feel comfort and love and security.
The ocean gives me that perspective. I appreciate the spirituality. The comfort and love.
When I step into the ocean, I feel the cold and the pull. Immediately I feel the pull. It invites me in and it also warns me about who is in control. It's not me. But I have always prided myself on my swimming prowess. On my strength. On my intuition. I respect the ocean and I respect its strength and pull. But I got this. I am also strong and respectable. I got this.
Until I don't.
I have heard people say things about undertow. And rough surf. And rip currents. I always sit near the lifeguard, make eye contact when I can, watch my children carefully. I don't nap. Or read. I watch. I respect.
Today I saw the waves and heard the kids laughing and shrieking as their bodies sailed back to the beach on boogie boards. It was a great beach day!
So I decided to go in, too.
The waves were huge. As big as I've seen them this summer. And from what I understand, this is only the beginning. The lifeguard board said 1-3' swells, down from 4'6" at high tide 3 hours earlier. That's a good beach day!
Abby was in the water so I went with her. Wyatt was in the sand right at the shore watching and digging. The waves were very big and crashing very hard so I went out a bit further thinking I would find that sweet spot where you can let the waves pick you up and put you down gently before they crest and crash. But the waves kept coming. And they were big. And I had to dive under them because the wall of water coming towards me looked too strong to jump onto or over, or even through, it looked like something I had to dive under to avoid. So did the next one. And the next.
I turned to see Abby get wiped out and make her way back in. I said to her "it's hard to find a spot to go in" and she just made a face. Then I got rolled. It startled me because I haven't been legitimately tossed by a wave in probably 25 years. I have been pushed and I have been forced to ride one in but not tossed under and rolled over. But I got back up. I saw Abby and she was close to Wyatt. Then I got tumbled again. And this time, I couldn't get up. It frightened me and I thought 'this is too rough, I am going in'. And when I stood up I saw another wall of a wave coming at me so I dove in but it rolled me and I felt my bathing suit bottom slide down to my ankles and I couldn't get up.
I was flipping and somersaulting and rolling and I didn't know where the bottom was or where the air was and I was running out of air to breathe and I was scared.
I thought my neck would snap. I couldn't control my arms. And I thought 'wow. this is it, huh? this is how I'm dying and leaving my kids?' I really thought that. Clearly!
I was really scared. I found the sand and pushed up and got air, just in time to dive back under the next wave and come back up to look back to the beach and realize that I was way far out beyond where I would ever go on purpose. My kids were tiny. And I was about to be rolled again. Down I went. I couldn't get up. I couldn't swim because the force of the current and the waves and the pull and all the amazingly strong and brilliant and awe-inspiring things I love about the ocean were beating me to death. I was terrified.
I saw the waves still coming and I had such perfectly calm, lucid thoughts come into my brain, like I was talking to myself. 'find the sand'. 'stay calm'. 'breathe then dive and push off the sand'. 'stay up with the water'. 'ride in'.
And I did all that. But I was so far out. And scared to the brink of panic.
I have been rolled, washed up and spit onto the beach with a liner full of sand and saltwater in my sinuses many many times. This was not that. This was taking me away. Not putting me back.
I had very clear thoughts in my head. I called for help - I actually yelled the word 'help' from my little spot in the ocean - and I tried to wave my arm in the air. And I realized no one would see me and no one could hear me. And I realized I had to get the fuck back on the beach. Now.
And I found the sand and I pushed and I swam and I rode.
When I got to the shore, close enough to the kids and out of reach of the big breakers I realized I was ok and I also realized that Abby had been there watching and screaming for me the entire time. She was crying. She was scared for me and I had to be strong for her. I didn't want to show her how life alteringLy terrified I had felt.
But she could see me. And she knew.
So we went up for a fresh water shower and then back to our blanket for a snack. And she cried a little more. And I cried a little.
And we talked about it. And how important knowing how far to go out is. And how important it is to keep an eye on the shore - on our spot in the sand. How important it is to always be near the lifeguard and know where the current is pulling.
She is a beach baby and she knows a lot. More than I did at her age, for sure. She loves the ocean but she respects it. Wyatt loves it, too, but he has a healthy amount of fear that will keep him safe and me sane - for a while longer, anyway.
I have no idea how much time passed from my first roll to my return to shore but it felt long. It's amazing how much very clear thinking I had time to do. Not lifeflashingbeforemyeyes kind of thinking but clear, rational thoughts like about which way was up and if my neck could actually snap like this and if I might actually die and if someone would rescue me and would my bathing suit be around my knees and should I care or be embarrassed and how to float and breathe and stay calm.
So today I felt small and weak and defeated by the Pacific Ocean. I fought my way out and I feel grateful for that. But not proud. I feel humbled. And strong. Just not as strong as Her.
