On Sunday there was a thunderstorm and storms remind me of the beach. No clue why. The closest I’ve come to that whole Point Break standing on the shores while the killer waves crash around me is being in Asbury Park, NJ in the drizzle.
I started thinking about the beach.
The first time I ever went was when I was 21.
Seriously, I had never been to the beach before.
Of course I picked November to go, so no swimming, but I did reenact some Karate Kid moments.
I floated in the ocean for the first time. I got motion sick, which came as a surprise to:
Because rocking chairs and 3-D movies and pretty much everything in existence makes me motion sick.
And also, the ocean smells like sewage and the salt caked and dried in my hair and it looked like I had mega dandruff. And my friend and I almost got eaten by seagulls because we ignored the signs and fed them anyway.
Plus that whole Jaws fear.
So why the hell do I love the beach?
Maybe not so much during the day when it’s all crowded and loud, but I’ve walked along the shore at night and it made me feel all communal with nature and artsy and like I have this huge special secret.
I think the thing that scares me the most about the ocean is also the thing I love the most.
That vastness, that unknown space.
Like I could get lost at sea and never be found or I could discover this whole amazing new creature below the surface.
Mother Nature, you kick some serious ass.