The Eternity of the Sea

I wake up to the siren song of the sea, that damp salty mistress shoving her low tide funk up my nose. There is no ignoring the summons of the sea and the man next to me won’t notice if I go, he doesn’t notice when I stay so really it shouldn’t make a difference. I acknowledge that this is probably a bad sign as I shove myself into jeans that are getting a little too tight and throw on a hoodie to fend off the damp chill waiting for me outside. I ease the screen door shut so it doesn’t slam and walk down the short drive of our apartment building to the cobbled street below. I turn right sharply and start up the incline to the main square, my hips rolling with each step and the empty feeling I started my morning with is reflected in the streets, too early on a Saturday for the shop owners and tourists to be out. I make my way through the open plaza of what is considered downtown in this tiny seaside port, past closed shops with their window displays slightly fogged up with moisture, showing off everything from clothing to local art. This is one of the things I love about this little slice of paradise, you never know what you’ll find in the shops, the wares shifting and changing weekly. Turning down one of the branching side streets I make my way to the quay on the edge of a park lined with large oak trees, their thick arms spreading and reaching toward the sky as if to tickle the stars, long since snuffed out in the early morning gloom.

I take a deep breath and let the salt and foam and loneliness fill my lungs. My feet thump on the sodden boards of the pier, the swirling eddies of the inlet shifting and stirring around its kelp and mussel encrusted legs, the source of that low tide funk that is both disgusting and soothing. That strange mix of awful decay and nostalgia is impossible to explain to anyone who has never lived near a cold ocean. It may be impossible to explain to anyone who has lived outside of the northeast. It’s the kind of smell the marks you and claims you; it reaches into your soul and bonds to it, tying up your memories.

Looking across the vast expanse of water I can see the distant shore of Kennebunkport, sometimes solid and sometimes hidden behind the shreds of mist and cloud that hangs over the water. Leaning over the wooden railing, the rough wood digging into my forearms, I stare into the water and try to imagine that I am the ocean. I am bottomless. I am might and calm and terror. I am wonder and mystery and dreams. I am bigger than myself and I am ageless. I am lonely but never alone. I breathe the sea into me and I try to become her, that temptress, the tempest, and the unfathomable.

As I breathe out, I wonder what it would be like to have a different life, without the man currently in my bed. We were so in love once upon a time, so in love that we moved mountains for each other and twisted ourselves into new shapes so that we fit together better. We thought that we would love each other forever. We thought it was fate. I never thought that I would watch that love wither and continue to twist into something cruel and soul-crushing. I’ve been pretending it’s all perfect for so long that I have no idea what love means anymore.

What would the ocean be, in love? Would she be constant like waves lapping the shore or would she be violent and destructive, taking everything for herself and never giving back? The sun is stretching its fingers through the morning sky, taking dominance over the day as I make my way back to the apartment and as the sun touches the mist, it’s like a miracle and everything is different. Shop keepers are propping open their doors, bells tinkling gently in a new breeze, traffic has begun to pick up with tourists coming in to shop, their tires smacking wetly against the cobbles as they drive. I tuck my mist-chilled fingers into the big pocket of my hoodie and keep my head down as I walk. And then, there it is.

A little black notebook lies tucked into the iron bars of the fence next to our apartment building, under the big horse chestnut tree. Its cover is unmarked and looks as soft as only new leather can look. I smell the musky sweetness of it before I ever touch its surface. I know that its weird to sniff a book you found in the street, but this is the softest little black book I have ever had the pleasure of touching, and leather is meant to be inhaled, like the bracing smell of the ocean, I have always thought of leather as feminine and sensual. My heart races unexpectedly, I feel like I’m stealing, but as I look around, I see that my street is deserted, the toy shop across the way doesn’t open for another hour. I open the cover to find creamy off-white paper with a rough texture, this is the good stuff, the handmade paper with faint hints of flowers mixed into the pulp. The edges are lightly scalloped, making it look like they were torn into shape rather than cut. There is no name. I flip through the pages, trying to find the owner’s information, surely, they would miss something like this? At exactly halfway through is a message written in luxurious aubergine ink that simply says, “Free yourself.” Below is another piece of paper folded up into a neat little square, taped to the page. I look around again, expecting someone to jump out of the alley demanding their little black book. There is no one but me, the sun, and the lazy

movement of the inlet that keeps bringing salty smells my way. I slowly peel the paper off and unfold it. It’s not high quality and its cheapness is almost an insult to the deliciously sumptuous nature of the book. My legs are suddenly weak and I sit on the half wall that the iron bars are planted in as I see that it’s a lottery ticket. A lottery ticket that has my name written on the back in the same deep purple ink as the note in the book. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as if I’m being watched and I’m breathing so hard, you’d think I just come back from a run. There is no way I am showing this to the man in my bed. His first instinct would be jealousy. His second anger. His third instinct? I don’t think I’ll be there for that. And I know in my bones that this ticket is my ticket. It’s my way out of this life I thought I wanted only to find that it was a sham dressed up as love. Could I really leave? Could I be like the sea? Could I be strong enough to endure the constant change of tides, the storms, and twists of the current, of Fate? The town church bells toll, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. It may not be a winning ticket, after all. It may only be a chance and it’s not one to pass up.

Leaping from my damp stone seat, I make my way back to the square, hips no longer rolling with a lazy gait, I am on a mission and time is suddenly sharp and pregnant with meaning and urgency. Following the twists and turns of the alleys, I make my way to the closest place I think of to check the numbers, a tiny nook of a convenience store that sells a mix of desperate items; cigarettes, condoms, candy, and of course, lottery tickets. Handing my ticket over to the worn-out looking man behind the counter, who’s three cups shy of the right amount of coffee, my hand trembles. We make inane small talk that I am not sure I am processing, oh yes, the weather is clearing up, it’s a lovely day to win the lottery, yes, the tourists are ruining everything. I nod and smile and respond the way I should, the way I was taught to be polite even though I want to scream at this guy to hurry up.

“Well,” he says, “you didn’t win.”

My heart sinks right through my stomach and lands dejectedly at my feet, a sloppy mess of dashed hopes and half formed dreams. I try to collect myself enough to say something polite, but before I have a chance to marshal my thoughts, he breaks into my misery.

“You didn’t win the whole thing, but you won $20,000! Hey, you think you could buy me a cup of coffee?”

My face splits into a grin and this guy is my new best friend. Twenty-thousand isn’t enough to live on but it is enough to start fresh. I can afford to buy this shmuck a cup of coffee.

“Sure.” I say and casually walk out the door, its bell tinkling with a joy that is reflected in the lightness of foot and heart. I woke this morning to a desolate ocean current, fog smeared over everything, and chill in my veins. Now the sun is throwing sparks on the waters’ surface, light glinting on the surface and the incoming tide has snuffed most of the funk, leaving a clean salty breeze. No matter how far away from the ocean I may go, whether I visit it often or never again, that feeling of eternity, changeability, and endless rhythm will never leave my body. That low tide funk will never leave my soul. I wouldn’t want it any other way.