The Call

Morning Calls as the
sun beckons eyelids to lift.
The ever-present

scent of sea vegetation
awakens the nose,
and the not-so-distant roar

of the ocean gives
reason to leap from bed. Though
exhaustion may be

a burden, the Call of the
blue ocean prevails.
Breakfast never tasted so

delicious, and soon
I slip on my light sundress,
free under the heat

of the rising sun. I can
soar to the beach with
a bright hop in my step. The

sand—though seemingly
soft and easy for walking—
is actually

quite hard. It slips between the
toes, flies everywhere under
each thud. The knees want

to buckle, but the crashes
of the waves and sprays
against the sandy land are

irresistible.
Folds of salty blue, grey, green,
rising then curling

under themselves exhale mist,
Like the wilting of
a rose petal given as

a token of love.
Immediately, as my
feet skip into the

water, my toes slip into
the wet sand being
pulled further into the ocean

with each hungry wave
Calling, with each crash, each fold,
dragging the sandy

earth and its inhabitants
into its depths of
God’s greatest magnificence.

its Call. Seawater
bathes my legs. My sundress is
damp with saltwater,

only to stiffen in the
afternoon sun. The
early May water numbs every

thing below the strained kneecaps,
Easing the sharp pain
crippling my legs from running

in the sand. The scratches
on my legs from falling on
seashells sting with the

salt that bathes all, cleanses all.
The ocean’s harsh Call
is too much to refuse. The

hollow groans of the
waves do not take ‘no’ for an
answer. But soon the

playing ceases and the ocean
has numbed my legs. The
sundress is soaked and anymore

romping with waves would
force me to crumple on the
sandy beach. So I

wade back to my towel. Sand
sticks to my feet like
pins to a magnet. Beach towels

must be used to tolerating
such feet, because I
don’t think anyone has ever

left the beach sandless.
Exhausted, I collapse onto
the towel, throw my sunhat

over my eyes to block the
ever-rising sun,
and gently fall asleep to

the lullaby of
hollow crashes
approaching and retreating.

God’s breath. The rock of
the earth—or is it just me?—
cradles me and soothes

me into the most beautiful
slumber. God’s humming.
Is this the sound all children

hear in their mother’s
womb? For we are all still children—
small against the ocean—

we simply allowed the world
to shed us of all
reality, and steal us

forth from true nature.
The sound of God’s breath folding
draws nearer. And as

I lick my parched lips and raise
the shield of my sunhat,
I see the ocean creeping

toward me, ever
closer, drawing a line against
the sand. High tide. I

can’t help but smile, because I
cannot rest when so
near is The Call of the Sea.