Water

 "My soul is like the oar that momently

Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave,

Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea:

Each second I'm new-born from some new grave. "

I am as connected to water as I am to the earth. It is a connection that speaks to the very core of my self. When I smell brackish water it is like the hand of God or perhaps Sedna reaching through to the very center of my being, tugging at the cord of unification. The cord that is connected to my ancestral voices, calling to me from a deep primordial source. It is a connection shared by Chris and I. I was born near water and will die either in it or close to it. I have always known and loved that I was connected to it from a very early age. As a little girl living in Puerto Rico I was never far from the sound of breaking surf or the taste of sea salt; there the air is thick with minuscule crystals that cling to lips, lids and lashes. One of my earliest memories is riding the bus with my grandfather from his little house in San Juan to the beach for the afternoon. The crowded bus, the people, the heat, all that disappeared for me as I sat near the open window waiting for the stop that would take us to the deep blue. I noticed that the air would get fresher and saltier the nearer we got. As we approached, my grandfather would lift me up so I could pull the cord, signaling the driver to let us off. I have a tiny picture that was taken that day with an old Kodak camera. I keep it in my jewelry box and look at it from time to time. I can't believe it has survived forty odd years. As children we only have smells and impressions etched into our beings that we carry inside forever. The smell of the surf, the color of the water, the way my grandfather gently dusted the sand from my little feet using his index finger to scoop the sand from between each tiny toe before putting on my sandals; these are the impressions that remain.

At the age of 36 and a student at The College of William May, I received a call one afternoon asking if I would like to join the crew team. I said yes and had no idea what I was in for. The next morning at 4:00 a.m. a car load of young women in their late teens pulled into my driveway to pick me up for breakfast before training. They taught me how to be their Coxswain, how to drill them on everything from picking up the boat, carrying it to the water, placing it in the water and how to row together. Every morning before sunrise we would practice these drills, the moon still in the sky, the mist rising from the marsh grasses in Queens Creek. Day would break and the sun would rise while our little shell would glide effortlessly, soundless atop the waters of the creek. Our mantra was "together, together, together" and I would give them this command until all oars were pulling in unison. Then I would stop the mantra and hear only the sound of the oars sluicing the water, dragging under, breaking the surface, splashing and repeating this pattern over and again. The stillness of the marsh together with the rhythm of the shell created a state of hypnosis experienced individually and collectively. The year I spent in training on the water was a year I will never forget and every time I drive across it on Interstate 64, I look at the colors of the creek and remember how lovely and peaceful it all was. 

All of us, carry in us, a longing to return to the sea. We evolved from it and will return to it in one form or another. Being on the water is a rhythmic dance that carries us away. When I went to the woods in Williamsburg, I dreamed of being on the water. I wanted a little boat to paddle on a creek or pond. But what I got was something much more extreme. I was gifted a boat, not the little wooden kayak of my dreams but a white water expert Dagger RMP. I dare say that boat challenged me in ways that I never expected. I learned how to balance in it, ride the rapids of the James River, paddle over little dams and around huge rocks. I sold that boat long ago after one treacherous ride down a rain swollen run along and across the Potomac River. An angel of mercy or Sedna appeared and saved myself and my friend from certain death on a cold, cloudy October afternoon.

I have a small red boat now that I use for paddling around the Pamlico sound or riding the waves in Cape Hatteras, but I still long for a small wooden boat and I constantly badger Chris about buying a kit or rescuing an old wooden cruiser bound for the junk heap. Someday, maybe in a few years, we will have the time to spend together to work on this type of project. But for now, we enjoy paddling a canoe or running around in his little metal fishing boat at Smith Point or Kiptopeke State Park on waters that invigorate our senses and speak to the very core, the primordial source that lies deep within.