When I go down to the sea, in my case it’s Lake Erie.

When I go down to the "sea," I see a remarkable transformation take place in the other people visiting there--and in myself. I am not a sailor, a swimmer, angler or a diver. I am just one of the reflective souls who come away from the waterside a better person than the one who arrived.  

There, an idyllic pause plays out before me. A vision of water and sky ends with juts of flat, layered and weather-pocked rocks at my feet. It seems that lookers imagine the small bay to be as vast as the ocean, and the sky as the whole universe.  

This picturesque bay, blue with gentle white caps stirred by passing boats, splashes an easy mist beyond its perfect ledges. A gleaming lighthouse stands behind us, inviting legends and fairy tales to be told. Soft, green pines and leafy trees edge the scene in just the right way, with just enough walking path to lead to different vantage points out to the water. Milky clouds stirr the sky, as sea gulls crease and jet stream folds provide just-enough-pattern. Sailboats dot the horizon as if on cue. 

I expect noise and chaos on a Sunday afternoon in a park full of families. Instead, quiet and reverence reigns where serene faces look out to "sea." There are plenty of rowdy children trying out stunts on the rocks, trying their mothers’ patience and concern, and trying out their penned up energy. There are athletic runners and bikers, dedicated aging health seekers, and city dwellers with their anxious dogs. All eyes are turned to the water and the sky. Minds and ears are tuned out to the world, and souls are listening to another music.  

A young girl, sitting with arms wrapped around her knees, stares into the waves. Does she see her gallant prince in last night’s dream reflected there? Old men and young, study the horizon and the lighthouse, re-living the ships wrecked and the battles fought there. Old women sit drinking the spraying mist with their parched skin. No one speaks to strangers, only to their own mates or close companions.

I want to sit for a moment in these traveler's souls, peer from their eyes and see what they sey. It's surely more than the seascape that keeps them so quiet and pensive. Perhaps the scene succeeds in emptying their minds, and this is its only purpose. Maybe they came because they believed the mist, the air, or the visit would heal them. In their belief, it does heal. It eases wrinkles off foreheads, it softenes frowns, and it lifts stones off hearts; if only for those moments.

Does gazing at the seamless line of sea and sky give each of us a grasp of the omnipotent creator? Does it make us feel connected to a heavenly Father, to a greater power? Sometimes, when I gaze at the sea, I can imagine Jesus walking there, calling us to have faith in him.

Each of the ladies on proper benches, the men curved into the craggy rocks, and the young people sprawled out on the flat ledges keep their faces to the sea, barely aware of any one else around them. Each wears a look of expectation, concentration, fulfillment, or contentment. The noise of children, speed boats or reckless seagulls does nothing to deter them. Each knows what the vista before them does for them.

At dusk, at last, young couples reluctantly stroll away with their arms around each other. Old women walk away home a little straighter, their heads a little higher. Men saunter away, looking satisfied. Do I imagine pipes clenched in teeth, important uniforms, and a jaunty gait? They all have clearer eyes and determined jaws. Young men look a little sheepish to have enjoyed themselves in spite of themselves, and stuff their hands into their pockets, smiling secretly and striding purposefully off to some deed or task. Children, of course, glowed rosy cheeks, skip away more quietly with minds filled with enough satisfying imagination to feed their boundless energy for days.

I feel as if the sea has accomplished it’s course. At least, for a day, it has in me.

Author's Biography

Wife to saint Jeff for 30 years, Mom to two great kids, Gramma to two precious gems--in Ohio.

I enjoy writing personal profiles, backyard stories and poetry most of all, but write also for the inspirational market.

E-mail April at oboy@bright.net

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