Seamus Reynolds
2-18-2011
Creative Non-Fiction
Personal Narrative
There is a cove, not more than a four minute walk from my father’s old house, that holds memories better than my leaky mind does.
It is a small cove; the spines of rock that encase it no more than a hundred yards from each other. At low tide, I can take maybe thirty steps before my sneakers are awash in the Gulf of Maine. I always have to be careful where I step. The beach is covered in fat, smooth, speckled stones that shade from a seagull grey to a wet black as one gets closer to the sea. Flotsam and jetsam are like tourists that come and go with the tides. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, holding on desperately as though they cannot stand the thought of their vacation ending. I do not mind them (synonym for vacationing) here, for this cove is blissfully bereft of the other, human tourists that stick to this beach town. It is true, technically, that this cove belongs to the rich Bostonian who owns the mansion resting on the cliff behind it. I only hope that he is a generous man and does not mind the moments that I make there.
The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. The waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their relentless invasion that creates the cacophony. It is their inevitable retreat. As each wave reaches its limit and begins to return to the sea, it refuses to leave without plunder. Hundreds of smooth stones scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along, like a great instrument made of a million miniature landslides. It is a sound that is at once both uniform and complex. Tumultuous and pure. Overwhelming… and soothing.
The first time I ever visited the cove, that orchestra could not play loud enough for me. The tide was high that day, the storm surge pushing the waves beyond the high water mark and on to the last few steps where I stood, watching the ocean reflect and distort the steely sky above. With the pounding surf pummeling the shore, the roar was almost continuous. Almost. It drowned out the thoughts I didn’t want to think, but in every brief pause between the swells, there was a moment of silence that my brain desperately filled. As the oldest of siblings, I would not permit myself to burden my brother and sisters with my own feelings. Especially not then, two days after we had moved into our parents new, separate houses. I had no goddamn clue what to say to them, no idea how I could make this betrayal better. So if I couldn’t make it better, there was no way I would burden them further with my own pain. So I came here. If a person could not soothe me with words, then the ocean would soothe me with volume. Create comfort from the cold fact that its existence would far outlast all our troubles.
I whispered my thanks to the wind.
The cove was something that quickly became near and dear to me, so I suppose it’s no surprise that I brought others there with me. Not just any others, though; those that were already close to me… and those that I wanted closer. I still remember the way the moonlight shone off of Kaitlyn’s eyes the first time I brought her (brought anyone) there. The ocean was calm, contentedly lapping at the shore. We climbed the rocks together, her hand gripping mine and mine gripping hers, as I lead her up uneven steps, my own steps sure-footed as they followed this strange, fluttery confidence in my chest that I could only describe as the passion of youth. The small ledge we found to sit on was just a little too small, and our thighs pressed up against one another. Our lips met, the distant lighthouse beamed, and the flash was all that bore witness to the first true kiss. Every eleven seconds the light would come ‘round again; I quickly lost count.
Time is an unwelcome visitor in memories of joy.
Visits at 2AM were not uncommon. In the summer, I worked in the kitchen in a local general store. My days were filled with obnoxious tourists, chaotic sandwich orders, and a grill that raised the already hot temperatures another twenty degrees. And yet, I was glad to go to every shift. I could laugh and joke and smile with my coworkers. We were comrades-in-arms. There was no laughter in these new houses that my family now lived in. Each rare smile was tinged with sadness. We had all been shown that blood was not nearly thick enough. One summer night, when I could no longer stand the suffocating heat and silence that constantly inhabited the room I shared with my sister, I ran as fast as I could through the tunnel of trees. There were no stars or moon that night. A hurricane was dying a few hundred miles off the coast, suffocated by the cold waters of the North Atlantic. Clouds covered the night sky, and my heavy breathing could barely be heard over the thunder from the waves that the darkness hid from me. I stood there like the air – still but heavy, silent yet boiling. I felt empty. Drained. The turmoil of feelings that had powered my run to this place were now spent. I stood with that emptiness for a long while and found it good. With a weary satisfaction, I entertained the idea of returning home… and all of the feelings came crashing back.
I ran in to the sea. In my pajama pants and sneakers I charged the ocean like Tolkien’s Rohirrim charged Helm’s Deep. Desperate, enraged, and with no thought for the superior force that I crashed against. I do not know how large these waves, these children of a dying hurricane, were. The water was as dark as the rest of the night and it fell to my other senses to even let me know it was there at all. Cold brine smashed against me, lifting me off my feet and hurling me every which way. Salt burned my nose as my head sunk underneath, and the roaring of the waves alternated with the eerie silence as my boiling head was thrown around. I think I was screaming, because the taste of harsh salt reached the back of my throat. It was probably only the sheer fortune of an incoming tide that caused one final wave to fling me onto the hard, round rocks of the shore. My knee was banged up and my elbow smarted from where I had landed on it. I coughed and laughed at the same time, the absurdity of my action and the relief of life overwhelming me. I had done something ‘manly and impulsive’. The cynical side of me scoffed as I limped back home, saying it would change nothing about my life. It was wrong.
Life is far more precious when you’ve been reminded just how short it can be.
Sometimes my experiences at the cove are filled with neither rage, nor pain, nor joy. Sometimes… they are just filled with life. It was early last summer when I brought Alex there. I had driven her home after a night with friends, but upon reaching that home, I realized that she did not want to be there. “Okay,” I said, and drove off. We sped down back roads in my little blue truck, two newly minted adults groping our way blindly through the world. Eventually my aimless driving brought us to the path to my old cove. She held my hand as we walked down the dark gravel path, but there wasn’t any fear in her grip. She wasn’t the first, second, or even the third girl I’d brought to this cove, but she was the first in months. My dad had moved out of that old house when I moved in to college, and I had found other places to visit the sea. I didn’t know what I was doing here with this girl I’d met so recently and yet felt so strongly for, so the memories of the past worked their way into my nervous babble as we reached the cliff of the cove. I talked about how special this place was to me as we looked out at the harbor lights, well-populated from the summer influx. She talked a little about her parent’s divorce, and I did the same. We both talked a lot about Lizzey, the girl that we both loved but in different ways. And when we had finally talked about everything but our feelings for one another, neither of us had the proper words. No, it was more than that… Neither of us knew what to do about those feelings at all. But she was beautiful, lying there in the moonlight, and I was once again reminded that ‘ache’ is an appropriate word for the heart’s feelings. I kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around me. Eventually she asked me if I had planned for something to happen, and I honestly replied that, at the time, I didn’t have the ability to plan anything. But… despite everything, I was glad, because I always want my first kiss with a girl to occur in a place as beautiful as she is.
And the story of life went on.
The last of these memories has been repeated so many times that it has become more precious ritual than whimsical moment. I’ve been away from home, living at school, for eight years now. First boarding school, and now college. Neither of these two homes away from home have ever been close to an ocean, so each time I come back to my little town I make my way to the ever-present ocean. The first visit in October is generally sunny, brisk but comfortable, the ocean covered in playful whitecaps from the autumn breeze. By Thanksgiving the sea has turned more grey than green, and the seagulls are forlornly pecking at the barren rocks. Christmas makes always makes for an adventurous journey; if I’m lucky, someone else’s boots have already flattened a path in the snow. By March, the mud makes December’s ice look easy by comparison, and when May comes, I once again share my shore with the others in the world. Yet the season doesn’t change the little ceremony. Each time I make my way to the ocean’s edge and stand just beyond the wave’s reach. I wait for my chance, trying to get my timing right, before I dash forward to stick a hand in the receding water. If I’m lucky I can jump back in time, but more often than not I pay the price of a soaked sneaker or two. As the evaporating sea cools my hand, I straighten up and look out over the great expanse. “Hey you,” I say fondly.
“I’m home.”
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