Tides of Silence

I woke up this morning to the sound of gulls fighting over scraps near the dock. It’s a familiar sound by now, almost comforting. The ocean’s scent crept in through the cracked window above my bed, salty and sharp. I’ve been staying here for three weeks — just me, a cabin, and the sea.

When I first arrived, I thought I’d spend most of my days writing, finally tackling that half-finished manuscript gathering dust in my Google Drive. But instead, I’ve been walking. A lot. Long walks down the rocky shore, past old boats moored in silence, and the occasional creaking pier that looks like it could collapse into the Atlantic any second. I think I’ve spent more time watching the tide than writing. And oddly, I don’t feel guilty about it.

There’s a lighthouse not far from here — Haven Point. It doesn’t function anymore, but it still stands tall and chipped, like a stubborn old man who refuses to retire. I sat there today for nearly two hours. I brought a sandwich and my old sketchpad, though I barely touched either. Instead, I watched a small crab trying to drag a seashell twice its size across a wet rock. It must’ve taken twenty minutes, maybe more, but it made it. I don’t know why, but that moment stuck with me.

This evening, I ran into the old man who sells bait down by the marina — Henry. He talks slow, like each word has to pass through three layers of thought before it exits his mouth. I asked him if he’s lived here his whole life, and he just nodded and said, “Long enough to forget where else I could’ve gone.” I don’t know what that means exactly, but I liked the way he said it.

He told me a story, too. Said back in ’78, a storm rolled in so fast it caught two fishing boats between the mainland and Gull’s Point. Only one made it back. The other — “The Josephine” — was never found. No wreckage. No bodies. Nothing. He said on foggy nights, people still claim to hear its engine humming out near the rocks. I’m sure it’s just local legend, but now I can’t un-hear it. The wind tonight has that same low drone. Or maybe I’m just letting the place get to me.

Funny thing is, I came here to escape noise — city noise, people noise, even my own thoughts. But this silence, it’s not empty. It’s filled with tiny, subtle sounds that mean more the longer I listen. The shifting waves. The flutter of wings. The sigh of trees bending with the breeze. They speak in a language I didn’t realize I could understand.

I haven’t spoken to anyone back home since I arrived. My phone stays off most of the time. I check it only once every few days, just in case someone panics. But no one has. I think that’s what surprised me most. The world keeps turning, whether I’m in it or not.

Tonight, I lit a fire and watched the stars come out, one by one. There’s no light pollution here, nothing but clear sky and a blanket of stars that stretch farther than I can imagine. I saw a shooting star. I didn’t wish on it — I didn’t need to. For once, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll write. Or maybe I’ll walk to the cliffs again, or help Henry sort bait. Maybe I’ll just sit on the porch with coffee and let the wind fill the spaces in my thoughts. Whatever I do, it’ll be enough.

Goodnight.

– J