Cold sand, wrapped in rough wool and aching for answers,
I first saw the coast line close to midnight:
that large, dark wall crash against the shore,
waves licking at my peripheral vision
from balcony to boardwalk.
Such expanse, such magnitude.
Such a perfect way to begin a New Year.
My last name translates to of the sea.
A French-Italian conglomerate of Ellis Island errors
and generations of European cross-breeding.
I was born an Aquarius,
just on the cusp of many other distinctions,
a water bearer in a month famous for its ice storms.
My family estate is called Hillspring,
named for the limestone ridge upon which it sits,
three natural springs giving life for centuries.
I grew up on Brookside Drive,
attended university minutes from Niagara Falls,
and met the love of my life on a back country road
whose translation from Hebrew means taken from the water.
And yet, it was not until New Year’s Eve of my 24th year
when I truly experienced The Ocean for the first time.
Waves crashing in the dark,
the power and the limitlessness,
the mystery and the fear-
and yet, the sunrise.
To first feel the ocean,
but not to see it.
To hear it’s magnitude, to imagine it’s potential,
but then, to see
the colors bleeding in and out of frothy waves,
the depths to which it can go, the life it can hold,
the change it can bring.
The overwhelming beauty of something we cannot fully hold,
of something we cannot fully see,
of something we cannot fully know.
This is what it means to love.
This is what it means to be free.
This is what it means to be of the sea.
Watch the sunrise over the ocean // to “Aquarius” from Hair