I found a place to hide and be a child again. It is such a rare treat to be able to find a place that remains unchanged from my childhood. Two short days was like living my youth all over again in slow motion. It soothed an aching soul. I grew up on the Jersey shore so many years ago. For over thirty years I have been a flatlander from the Midwest. The ocean has always been a part of me. The subtle urging of the familiar pulls me to any large body of water I can find, but nothing is as sweet as home.
Work has brought me to the shore again. Not just once but a number of times over the past two years. Within five miles of my project is Cape May. It has become a popular summer retreat, but I never come with the crowds. I enjoy the off season when the entire seaside is your private playground. There are just a small handful of locals who keep the place from becoming a ghost town. Within an hour or two at the local pub your become a local.
In 1761 Cape May became the first seashore resort in America. The carefully preserved several hundred beautiful houses throughout the city is the largest collection of authentic Victorian structures in the nation. Cape May is rich in history. Among its famous visitors have been Maestro John Philip Sousa; circus impresario P.T. Barnum; Civil War Generals Robert E. Lee and William Sherman; Abe Lincoln before becoming president; Presidents James Buchanan, Franklin Pierce, Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Harrison. In 1976 Cape May was officially designated a National Historic Landmark City, only one of five in the nation. It is a walk back in time.
Walking the narrow streets adjacent to the boardwalk, I mourn the fact that a great majority of the population grew up in the suburbs never experiencing this rich cultural fabric. We have to now drag our children to some Disney resort and pay obscene fees to see a sanitized scripted version of a small coastal community managed by a corporation. What are we thinking?
As I walk toward the shore the weather requires a heavy sweatshirt. The chill touches the bone, reminding of my old friend. There is a soft grey mist that embraces the town like a blanket. I have been able to smell the ocean air for miles now, ever since I crossed the barrier islands. The urge is overwhelming to seek the source of the damp salty air, turning around is no longer possible. This need is primal. The primitive reptile part of the brain responsible for breathing and hunger takes control.
Silently I approach walking back into my childhood. The ocean air has unlocked a flood of memories. The images explode from my mind in brilliant clarity triggered by the scent. I can see my father sitting under an umbrella reading a spy novel with his feet in the sand. I am from many generations of sea worshipers. My father was never happier than when he could spend the day at the shore. The memory is replaced by see the delicate face of the first girl I ever kissed. She is so innocent and perfect. We sit on the sand arm in arm as I work up the courage to caress her eager lips with mine. With each breathe of salt air my soul awakens further from a deep slumber.
The sound of the sea gulls calling on the evening breeze brings me back to the moment. I recall the faint buzzing of the transformers on the lights because of the salt air. The dune grass is gently waving as I climb up and over the boardwalk. I finally touch the sand. I remove my shoes and socks despite the coolness. I am once again grounded to place of my birth. I can see so clearly even though my eyes are closed. The urge to rush to the water subsides as the pleasure of the moment washes over me. Slowly I begin my pilgrimage to the source of all life in complete silence.
The sun is setting and the colors of the landscape are changing as the seconds pass. Approaching the overturned lifeguard stand my hand briefly runs over the worn wooden rails feeling a trace of dew. I see myself standing in the surf with a small sturdy fishing pole casting for the riches of the world. My uncle has just returned with a bucket of minnows we seined earlier from the bay. Every second is filled with dreams and aspiration. We beach is filled with the sounds of hundreds of joyful children. The voices turn into a delightful chorus of happiness. The faint smell of Coppertone passes through the hidden reaches of my memory.
There is a moment at sunset where time stands still. Photographers call it the magic hour. Everything becomes bathed in the softest angelic light. Colors become blended and vibrant. Contrast between light and dark disappear revealing exquisite detail in the shadows. The musician Dr. John said “life occurs in the shadows between the seen and unseen”. This is what he was talking about.
At this moment I reach the water. The tide is rising to greet me. The waves are rolling toward the sand pushing frothing mountains of foam. The sounds of the waves are a soothing lullaby that calms and settles me. As the waves recede, the foam disappears leaving a slight impression only to be replaced by the next wave. The cycle is endless. Bubbles emitted from clams below the surface of the sand create swirling patterns that remind me of the short circular strokes of a paintbrush. I reach down to touch the sea and immediately bring it to my lips. In return tears gently fall back to the sea. It is as if my tears are returning to their origin. They are a forgotten part of the ocean only separated by time. The circle is once again fulfilled. The connection is renewed. Standing still I inhale deeply savoring each breathe trying to capture every bit of it to take with me.
As darkness falls I watch the last light of the day fade. Every nerve in my body is alive attempting to record for my memory the smallest of detail. Staring out over the horizon, the mystery of time unveils itself. For a fleeting instant moment time has no dimension. I can see the entire expanse of my life in the glimmering waves. I am struck by a brief sadness when realizing how quickly the years have passed. Fully aware of the moment I try to see the future over the dark shadows of the waves. It doesn’t bother me much, because the future will travel through me and all I have to do is wait here is the present.
I stood there for a few wonderful hours, until the lights in the old Victorian houses began to disappear. I searched the ground looking for the perfect stone to remember this communion. Immediately upon touching it, I knew I had found my prize. The stone was white quartz not uncommon to the area. However the stone was worn by the sea to a smooth elliptical shape that fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. Carefully I slipped it into my pocket for the journey home.
Walking back to the bed and breakfast I was exhilarated and exhausted. The day could not have been any more perfect. How often do you get a second chance to enjoy the best memories of life? It has been almost ten years since my father has been gone and I had just once again spent another cherished day at the beach with him. I had once again looked into the eyes of the first girl to capture my heart on a warm summer night. I had seen my soul in the rolling waves and we had a good long conversation.
As I climbed the steps to my room for the night I knew I would leave again in the morning. How long would it take for the road to grind all of this out of me? How long could I hold this breathe of salt air before exhaling? The only thing I knew for sure was that I would return many more times before the end catches up with me. It seems almost certain I will retire to the shore so I can spend every day with my old friend. Tomorrow is of no importance right now. The window is open and the surf is singing to me. The salt air is filling my every breath as I fall into a deep slumber.
