In The Drift

The fishing pier stretched out across the bay, and in the early light of morning, I could only see the dark shadows of two men, casting their lines and sipping their coffee. My feet hung over the edge of the bulkhead, swinging back and forth and I felt a bit like a small child on a swing. There was peace here, enormous peace, and I pretended that my soul was a sponge and that I could soak it all up, deplete the haven around me and divert it into myself.

Most days, I pretended I was not a broken woman, and that everything between the Sun and the Earth was just fine, fine, fine, fine. I pretended that I was resilient and did not ache inside at the sight of the large carrier ships that slunk through the ship channel, just beyond the pier and docks. I pretended that I was strong, a warrior woman who couldn't be hurt, and that the empty ache of a love lost would not ruin me.

But it did. Often.

Because it was Big Love, and I had only a small taste of it. Enough to want it forever, like a speck of honey on the edge of a bitter fruit. When those ships passed by each and every day, I heard myself whisper, 'Miss you' or 'My Captain', even though I knew it was not his ship.

All of this is to say that I found myself longing to be back on the water again, close enough to smell the salt and watch the ships, and wonder at the large pelicans as they scooped down to gulp their breakfast from the water. I wanted to save a part of that big love (or the memory of it) and keep it close. So, I sold my house in the suburbs and moved to the small, bay-front community that I grew up in, and settled myself into an old, charming little house with a decent enough water view and the idea that I had no choice but to find some inner peace and a new life. I wanted no one, no one but him, and to fathom anything outside of that was something close to punitive.

It was on one of my morning walks along the bay, boxes still waiting to be un-packed in my new home, that I spotted chunks and pieces of driftwood pushed up onto the rocky bulkhead. I had been watching a particular ship glide along the back of the channel, the blue and white colors of the ship familiar; I thought for a moment it really was him navigating that monster-sized, water tank right past my house. But it wasn't, of course, and the ache in my gut became fury and I grappled at a long, smooth, slip of driftwood, intending to throw it with all my might into the water, as if I could hit the ship itself. But the driftwood was soft and buttery in my hand, and I noticed the shape twisted and curved and the end flattened in such a unique way it was almost a perfect wooden copy of a snake. I found it pleasing, so I decided not to throw it out. The ship sailed past, ignored. I started looking around at the piles of water-logged and sun-dried hunks of wood and branches, planks and piling slivers. Another caught my eye, this one like the very center of a crab body, and I snatched it up. For the next half hour, I scoured the rocks and collected an armful of driftwood, then walked back to the house, and started the task of creating something from them. There were processes to take; blanching the wood in a cleaning solution, drying them again in the sun. I collected my paints and brushes, created a space in a small room off of my garage, and spent the entire day inside, brushing dirt from crevices in the driftwood and staring at them until they became something else. The next morning, I took my walk; I whispered to the ships, I mumbled hello's, and miss-you's to ship Captains that weren't my ship Captain, and I collected another dozen pieces of wooden, water-front refuse.

Many mornings I spent hunting driftwood. Also, some ship spotting. But the days grew into weeks, and weeks into months. My little life by the bay began to evolve; I found myself happy and content, more often than not. I puttered around my house, yard, makeshift Art studio. I collected more wood, created tubs and shelves to store them in. Morning walks searching for dried-out wood were therapy, of a sort. The water glimmered most beautifully in the morning sun as the world awoke; the pelicans, the fish jumping, the kind old men casting fishing poles, the sprawling lines of shrimp boats further out into the bay, the smell of salt and the sound of lapping water. I caught glimpses of big ships and a short flood of longing, or nostalgia, would wash over me, but it was less sharp, there was less ache, and it occurred less often. More and more, I focused on me, on my little life and what it might look like in the second half. And I focused on the driftwood crafting.

There was almost nothing to this little driftwood Art-hobby. I couldn't pretend to have any real, or significant talent. The effort was minimal and quite simple: I searched, I collected, I cleaned, and I imagined I saw something in the shape and put it together, or painted it, or built with it. What it lacked in difficulty, the projects made up for in creativity, but also in allowing me to see something in what looked like nothing at all. I was pleased with my hobby. I created a crab and mounted it on a wood-planked canvas. I painted and shaped the original snake, along with a squid, and a fish, and a whale. (I plan to create a large crane, but so far, those exceptional, swoosh-shaped pieces of driftwood have eluded me.)

One morning, after lugging a small wagon full of driftwood back to the house with the intent of creating a massive, three-dimensional Octopus, I realized I hadn't even looked at the big ships floating by in the channel. Did it hurt a little less, now? I wasn't entirely sure, but it felt that way. I was busy and creating, and the beauty and quiet of the water-front was coming from my treasure hunts for driftwood, not from the bittersweet longings of watching the ships (my lost Captain) pass by. But something (and someone) amazing happened; I found myself busy with living in the present rather than whimpering over the past. Busy creating things, and hunting for things and finding joy in the simple work.

A new neighbor moved in next to me, and small smiles and hello's turned into conversations and laughs, invitations, and sneaky, long, heat-filled looks across the space between us. I realized, quite suddently and with abrupt shock, that love and romance could feel bigger, even bigger than those mighty Ro-Ro carriers. My ship Captain wasn't ever coming back for me, and like a blow to the gut I realized he could dock that gargantuan hunk of steel right next to my house and I would not run to him, not any longer. I won't forget him either. But inner peace is a hard-won reward, and I'd been running that race a long time. Now, I find I have to re-define Big Love. Because that might not have been as big as it's supposed to get for me.

Today, I have plans with my neighbor. From my sunroom full of windows, I watch him walk over from next door. He's ridiculously handsome, and maybe even more than that, because my stomach often feels like a roller-coaster when he's around. The smile on my face is twenty years younger than I actually am-I can feel it, like a big, giddy, crushing kind of grin. I almost berate myself for it, because I can't hide it, and I know the whole world sees it. When he is in the room, I feel like I am naked and turned inside out, for everyone to see. When he holds me, it's like a puzzle piece snapping into place. And when he kisses me, all the ships in the world can pass by and I don't wonder who is behind the helm. Somehow, what I once thought was Big Love now feels so much smaller in comparison to what is happening, right outside my door.