I enjoy the ocean now. Well, not swimming in the ocean – ever. But the dry part of the ocean, what some call the shore. That part is good now. Well, it’s tolerable. If you have a beach tent that doesn’t get blown over and if you have plenty of water and snacks. Then, I enjoy a trip to the ocean. For a good portion of my life this was not the case, and I had resigned myself to being a mountain, forest, and trail type person rather than a lover of ocean and beaches. And that would have been that. Except that life, in the weird way it does, paired me with a mate who grew up near the ocean and continues to find her joy and spiritual grounding on its shores.
It’s fair to say that my initial resentments grew out of a simple ignorance, lack of understanding, and minimal exposure to ocean-related places. Growing up in a rural town in Upstate New York is akin to growing up in Oklahoma, Iowa, or any other landlocked environment that would make a young mind favor grass to sand, Robins to Seagulls, and a day spent walking, biking, hiking, or planting a field with corn to collecting seashells, throwing a wind-tossed frisbee, or – well – sitting in the sun and getting hot.
Those appeared to be the most popular activities I witnessed when first exposed to an ocean beach. And I found it all quite boring, especially sitting in the sun while the heat of the day bounced off the sand and cooked me like an Irish potato. The sand was not only hot, but also clingy to my wet skin and difficult to trudge around in. I found that sand is almost impossible to get off one’s person, especially after applying suntan lotion, which is essential a type of sand-glue. And yes, the ocean is filled with sharks. That is a proven fact. But it’s also filled with other large, mysterious, deadly creatures. Take jellyfish for example. They are nearly invisible but will sting you without provocation whenever they are able. Sharks and jellyfish are excellent examples of why you should stay out of the ocean. There are sharp-toothed, stingy things everywhere out there that you cannot see.
If I’m honest, I might not go into the ocean even if the deadly, invisible, stinging creatures didn’t lurk in its waters. Because wading or swimming in the ocean is simply not “refreshing” in any sane definition of the word. It’s too salty. And the salt sticks to you worse than the sand does! This combination of outside irritants to one’s skin leaves me feeling abrasive for days – like a chunky pad of steel wool after being scrubbed over a greasy pan of French Toast remnants.
And if these reasons were not enough, consider that the ocean doesn’t show any indication of wanting human beings in it. Need proof? Try to drink some of its water – ugh! Then go stand in the breaking surf for an hour or two. Waves are the ocean’s way of saying “keep your filthy human bodies out of here!” If these experiments aren’t enough for you, do some research on how the undertow in that breaking surf works and how it relates to the riptides that are so prevalent on ocean shorelines. When you’re finished, come talk to me about the wonderful connection you feel with Mother Earth’s healing ocean waters: but don’t forget the sharks. Never, ever, forget about the sharks!
I was, in fact, near the ocean while writing the above lines, and I took a moment to share with my wife what I was scribbling in my journal. When I explained to her that this was an amends to the ocean, she pointed out that it doesn’t seem that way. In fact, she suggested that I’m just complaining about the beach and ocean. That may be true. So I suppose I should get to the amends part of the piece soon – or maybe I’ll just have to rename it.
Either way, I need to express a few more thoughts and justifications about why my resentment with the ocean grew and festered. And the biggest reason is that it tried to kill me once. I was pulled into its undertow and nearly drowned. Not to mention there were jellyfish everywhere at the time – and hypodermic needles mixed with other hospital waste products (although technically I’ve come to realize that was not the ocean’s fault).
It was in the early 1980’s and I was on my reverse “Fresh Air” summer vacation sabbatical from the small Adirondack town to Long Island, NY. My cousins lived there and each summer I would spend a few weeks galivanting around with them eating good bagels, pizza, and authentic Italian ice while escaping the tedium of home. We were all early adolescents who were allowed to run amok on the Island with little to no supervision, which speaks either to the era we grew up in or the people who were raising us – maybe a bit of both – but between our day-long biking treks, and access to public busses and trains, there was very little that was off limits. Jones Beach was one of our most popular destinations, and that is where we trudged from the bus stop to the hot, sticky sand dunes on the day that the ocean tried to kill me.
There were signs posted everywhere talking about the harsh surf, riptides and a higher than usual amount of jellyfish in the waters that summer. Donna B, my cousins’ friend from just down the block and my first crush, informed us of the syringes and biohazardous medical garbage that hospitals had been dumping into the ocean. She said it was a headline in Newsday. But she was an unreliable source of information whose primary concern seemed to be not getting pregnant by accident, which she assured us could happen while completely clothed. I would receive my first kiss from Donna that summer, both of us careful not to let our Levi acid washed jeans touch each other.
Despite Donna’s advice and the prominent warnings about the dangerous conditions in the water that day, we immediately bounded full speed into the treacherous surf. Within minutes, I was knocked off my feet and dragged deeper into the ocean’s abyss by a force of suction created by sand and sea and fury. I fought desperately but could not get any purchase with my feet or hands to stand again, and without my consent or awareness, another massive force of waves pushed my legs over my back in a very unnatural way and launched me towards the shore.
This time, as the surf receded, I clawed myself away from the deadly undertow and up onto dry where I found other survivors from our crew gasping for breath – each of us realizing how lucky we’d been to escape the ocean’s angry attack. Only Donna had stayed safely on the dry dunes. We found her perched on the Star Wars themed beach blanket she’d spread out near an empty lifeguard station. She had on dark, oversized sunglasses and was puffing away at a Marlboro Light (apparently, she’d decided the appetite-suppressing effect of smoking outweighed the whole cancer-causing consequences.
“I told you all not to go in there,” she chirped and blew smoke in our faces, “you’re lucky you didn’t get a used syringe plunged into your neck.”
*Side Note* About 30 years after this incident, I returned to Jones Beach with my bride and our two children (who were both early adolescents at the time). The surf looked rough, but my wife gave the kids a quick warning and lesson on beach safety then sent them in with the instructions to only go knee-deep. My daughter began screaming in agony minutes later when a large wave (one I believe had been waiting all these years) threw her down and fractured her shoulder.
I see you, ocean.
So why make an amends? Good question. Bringing back these memories has actually convinced me how justified and rational my feelings are. The ocean is mean. Mercurial. Brash. Sticky. Full of sharks.
But – there is something in these ocean places that I must admit seems healthy. Or maybe its just that we are reminded of what truly matters when we’re at the seashore. Survival matters. Breathing is important as well. Respecting the laws and power of nature is another wise lesson. The fact that we humans don’t know everything and that, in the end, we’re not really in charge of much around here. Our time on the planet is brief, our personal impact to the natural order of the Earth quite infinitesimal in comparison to natural things that abide. At the beach, any beach, we might be standing in the same sand that our great, great, ancestors stood upon. Native Warriors, foreign explorers, pirates and pilgrims alike – all trudging through the sticky sand. These are the lands and spaces that refuse to be paved or plowed or wrapped up in barbed wire and sold to the highest bidder. And I deeply respect that. So I apologize for whining about your wildness, great ocean. I’m not guaranteeing that I will sit around on your sandy shores or flounder in your deadly waters anytime soon, probably for the remainder of my lifetime, but, for what it’s worth, I think you’re alright…
Wow, that was a tirade! However, I still love the ocean. Nature continues to teach us to respect it, and I admire that. Have to say you take after your father in this regard. My soul comes alive near the ocean. My happy summers were in Cape Cod with family and ocean. Suzanne is right!
I too have a wipeout story at the beach while boogie boarding I Hawaii when I lived there. Got a ride in an ambulance as a result. Howwver I lived in a house on the beach in Puerto Rico over the past few years and went to sleep every night to the sound of its waves. Where there is danger there is also beauty with the natural order of things.
Wow, that was a tirade! However, I still love the ocean. Nature continues to teach us to respect it, and I admire that. Have to say you take after your father in this regard. My soul comes alive near the ocean. My happy summers were in Cape Cod with family and ocean. Suzanne is right!
I too have a wipeout story at the beach while boogie boarding I Hawaii when I lived there. Got a ride in an ambulance as a result. Howwver I lived in a house on the beach in Puerto Rico over the past few years and went to sleep every night to the sound of its waves. Where there is danger there is also beauty with the natural order of things.
Nice read I dive so I love the ocean. But did have a riptide take me out when I was 17 diving with a club and I studied sharks at the time.