The sea reached out to me like a benevolent mother. The ebb and surge of the tide were notes of her ceaseless lullaby. Somehow she knew where I hurt and she reached out to those places with certainty but without presumption or brashness. Standing on the promenade, I was a hesitant child – knowing well that my precious hurt was but a particle in her dark fathoms. But when the sea sings, you cannot but listen. She holds the burden of livelihoods, the demands of plunder and the prayer of hope. And the infiniteness of death.
Her constant disquiet can still even the severest disturbance. With the mellifluousness of poetry, she awakens the deadened soul, thaws the numb heart and restores the sense of wonder with her cache of simple treasures. The whiteness of the sand that meets the water with open arms, the exhilaration of the sweet-tinged breeze as it skims the sea’s surface, the inviolate, creamy hearts of the sea shells. The purple flowers that grow silent and voluptuous – a sensuality of which sweetness hasn’t been drained out yet. The silence that only the sea gull’s cry, distant foghorn echoes and fisherfolk sound can be. They go on around you, but all you hear is the sound of stillness inside you as your distraction folds its wings like a bird retiring to roost. The sea always heals. And I left her side with the taste of her salty kiss on my lips.