We each do something with infinity.
Copernicus stood and spat into its wind. Ramanujan poked a hole through its veil. Beethoven went deaf from listening to its music.
Few of us embrace it. Many of us slip our minuscule selves along its edge, our minds tumbling with half-formed questions. Some choose to ignore it altogether.
The ocean is Earth’s infinity, lapping at our feet. It gives us a glimpse of forever. A matter of perspective, of course, it’s a distortion that our terrestrial view provides. As a tenant of infinity, the ocean is but a droplet. A profound, unfathomable droplet, teeming with finite things — algae, crustacea, whales turning somersaults. It cools this spinning top, nourishes, astonishes us.
* * *
This is second in a set of northern California road trip ramblings.
We enter with quiet joy, Bex and her crew and I.* We rush toward the water, not wanting to stop but knowing we must. We romp in its frothy edge. Rocks rise against the waves, victimized, but rise nonetheless. They become rugged stepping stones, our stoic tour guides with full impunity should any mishaps occur.
*Bex is my youngest sister (Rebecca); her crew are Grant, 14, and Ben, Charlotte, and Max, 11, 11, and 11, respectively.
The rocks lure us further out, closer in, offering us myriad seaside attractions: a mollusk metropolis … a neon anemone ... a theatrical cave equipped with driftwood props and sound effects.
This purges you, whether you think you need purging or not. A single lungs-full of ocean air will swirl into your mind and sweep old dreams away. What remains is pure wonder. It will inevitably be contaminated as you return to civilized living — but for this suspended moment, there is nothing else. You find no answers, because you’re no longer looking for them.
You feel. You feel the vast influences, the endless pushes and pulls, surges and spins, heights and depths. And the waves — light waves, sound waves, water. You feel the leviathan move.
Our first taste of the ocean, literally, was in LA, where Bex and I shared a platter of raw oysters in celebration of doing a road trip together and of our dad, who loved the briny delicacies. The oysters came from waters off Baja, upper California, and Washington state. According to this selection, the further north you go along the West Coast the milder they are.
I remember my first experience eating a raw oyster. At a private party with artist and writer associates, and, mindful of Jonathan Swift’s quote, “He was a bold man that first eat an oyster,” I was concerned that I would gag. I tried it anyway, napkin-ready … tried it, and smiled.
“These oysters must have led mundane lives,” I told Bex as we finished them, “— they produced no pearls.”
In this moment, the ocean is our oyster.
Not for long.
The tide rises. The cavern is closing up. Another set of props will undoubtedly be delivered. Another tug of the sun and moon and we’ll be floundering in true infinity. There will be little mercy then — not from the natural laws. I think of a story I illustrated for Mary Pope Osborne’s Mermaid Tales from Around the World. In it, a guardian mermaid takes revenge against a soldier’s betrayal of her innocent charge, gripping him around his pounding chest, until the sea fills up his lungs.
The tide rises. The cavern is closing up. Another set of props will undoubtedly be delivered. Another tug of the sun and moon and we’ll be floundering in true infinity. There will be little mercy then — not from the natural laws. I think of a story I illustrated for Mary Pope Osborne’s Mermaid Tales from Around the World. In it, a guardian mermaid takes revenge against a soldier’s betrayal of her innocent charge, gripping him around his pounding chest, until the sea fills up his lungs.
 |  Reference pose for “The Mermaid’s Revenge.” |
We hastily retreat, pockets lumpy with small treasures, ancient delights. They’ll go in a jar in the bathroom, or along a window ledge — an attempt on the part of humans to enhance the unremarkable. But there is a serendipitous phenomenon with sea shells: You take one home and hold it to your ear and hear its constant reminder, “I came from the sea … the sea …” The coast may be thousands of miles away, but its memory sighs there in your hand.
As we leave this vast, quivering droplet, though it still tows on our senses, the forever, half-formed questions return.
But now we have an answer: “What the ocean said.”
As we leave this vast, quivering droplet, though it still tows on our senses, the forever, half-formed questions return.
But now we have an answer: “What the ocean said.”
next time: living a dream : beauty, the beast, and the drive-through tree
last time: living a dream : through a portal toward paradise
photos: Troy Howell and Gibson Girl Photography / "Sun" art by my Oregonian friend, Jim Shields
RSS Feed