The froth circlet gambols to the whim of the wind as it approaches the shore. It flicks half of itself towards the golden cliffs above; the other half melts into the jagged rocks below, vanishing into the ether. I study the surf capering upon the callous coast, at the mercy of tide and current, mesmerized by its continuous transformation from tranquil to tumultuous. The boundary between sea and land fascinates me: the briny aroma, the unceasing roil of waves, the tang of kelp and sodium chloride on my lips. A drama between gravity, planetary rotation, and weather is played out here in various shades without end. I love and fear the theatricality of the ocean. My soul yearns to soar towards that distant edge where it appears two infinities touch.
The horizon is an unbroken grey line so remote it attests to the cosmic nature of the Pacific. Nearby, the peeling white lighthouse fades in and out of a dazzle created by fog and sunlight. I crane my neck down to the rugged crags, curious if between the thunderous breakers I can glimpse a broken stern or the fringe of an overturned bowsprit. Sign of what might befall my own vessel. The sea is a wayward lover, in equal measure generous and cruel. Under the gathering swells writhe the haunting echoes of groaning hulls collapsing into their liquid graves. Happily our sails flourish at the moment, buoyed by favorable breezes.
“Luck is not chance….Fortune’s expensive smile is earned,” wrote poet Emily Dickinson in the confines of her New England chamber. How mistaken she was! An accident of birth and she would not have been the favored daughter of a prominent progressive family. Another coin toss and she would never have met the faithful correspondents who stimulated her creativity. A different dice roll and she may have forever remained a foreigner to fame.
Fortune plays more of a role in our lives than we care to admit. Felicity is what keeps our boat from meeting the same end as thousands before us. It ensures that this crew wields weather to their will. It grants us steady hands and functioning gears. It prevents the clouds from gathering into storms. It marks the turn of the wheeling gulls and the sweep of terns. Below the blue-green surface it directs schools of creatures in their migratory patterns. Swaying with the undulation of oceanic motion, I try to align luck with my need for control. The two refuse to conjoin nicely like puzzle pieces and I am left wondering — where is my striving, my attempts at perfection, my desire for self-improvement leading me?
Is there any point to all this hustling if a chance calamity wipes all gain from our possession? Once perhaps our species understood better the power providence holds over us. Maybe that’s what the stenciled handprints on cave walls signified: acknowledgment that the universe doesn’t revolve around our schedule, an honoring of the collective, the ephemeral. Sailing reminds me forcibly that I’m at the mercy of so many elements. At this juncture they work to pull me towards my destination. Air currents toil with mast, jib, and rudder to ply the sea of uncertainty. And it is up to me, the sailor, to both master their complexity and labor alongside them for a common purpose.
Much of what I believe to be the work of life is instead a delusion. The true task is letting go. Surrendering to the rhythms of forces beyond. One cannot fight against the prevailing drafts. So in life. So in art.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
“Life loves the liver of it,” Maya Angelou once said, and in this as in her other observations, she recognized the courage needed to practice the essence of living. Find her wisdom and meditations in “Conversations with Maya Angelou,” available at your local bookstore or through the bookshop.org link: https://bookshop.org/a/9591/9780878053629.
Thank you for listening. “Call of the Sea” was written and narrated by Atreyee Gupta. To read this and other travel tales, head to our website at www.bespoketraveler.com.
