Once there was a girl born to a family with a good pedigree. She grew up under the warm southern California sun and lived a predictable life. Somehow or another, the sea seeped into her veins without her knowledge or permission. I suppose it just happens that way when you are raised at sea level.
Her family owned a trawler and she spent many weekends crossing from Marina Del Ray to Catalina Island. When the sea was kind, you could find her belly-down on the foredeck – head resting on the teak toe rail, searching the bottomless green gray waters of the Pacific for jelly fish. When the sea was fierce, you could find her belly-down over the engine room floorboards - the hum and vibration of the engines, and the smell of diesel always kept her from getting sick.
Ironically, sailing never entered her mind until she had moved far from the ocean. What a silly notion that a girl in landlocked Idaho would be interested in sailing. As predictable as Pandora opening the box, the girl’s first sailboat awakened a sleeping passion. I am told that this passion can lie dormant in the soul for years, only to be re-awakened by the smell of marsh and salt air. Sailing was the catalyst that brought her back home to sea level. To the blue waters of the Atlantic - the opposite side - but home nevertheless.
The girl, now a woman, bears a tattoo of waves on her back and she submits that the ocean is her equilibrium. She lives in Florida but dreams of a day that she will have no home port. Most close to her don’t understand her passion - hobbies should not consume people, they reason. She supposes that those not born at sea level can never understand. Some passions run deep and flow through the veins, like heroin to the addict.
Her family owned a trawler and she spent many weekends crossing from Marina Del Ray to Catalina Island. When the sea was kind, you could find her belly-down on the foredeck – head resting on the teak toe rail, searching the bottomless green gray waters of the Pacific for jelly fish. When the sea was fierce, you could find her belly-down over the engine room floorboards - the hum and vibration of the engines, and the smell of diesel always kept her from getting sick.
Ironically, sailing never entered her mind until she had moved far from the ocean. What a silly notion that a girl in landlocked Idaho would be interested in sailing. As predictable as Pandora opening the box, the girl’s first sailboat awakened a sleeping passion. I am told that this passion can lie dormant in the soul for years, only to be re-awakened by the smell of marsh and salt air. Sailing was the catalyst that brought her back home to sea level. To the blue waters of the Atlantic - the opposite side - but home nevertheless.
The girl, now a woman, bears a tattoo of waves on her back and she submits that the ocean is her equilibrium. She lives in Florida but dreams of a day that she will have no home port. Most close to her don’t understand her passion - hobbies should not consume people, they reason. She supposes that those not born at sea level can never understand. Some passions run deep and flow through the veins, like heroin to the addict.
1 comment:
Great entry! Are we related?
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