The Sea We See

I've walked this lonely stretch many times feeling the warm sand on my bare feet. The ocean's roaring voice has called to me, and I have answered with a prayer. "Oh, Lord, can't I just stay here?" I've found the shells and weathered wood which waves have carried to the shore, but on this warm day in September I saw a strange man standing alone on the pier as though the winds had placed him there.  Standing straight and tall, not moving, his weathered face showed the trace of ravaged wear and age. From his tattered clothes, it did appear he was a man of poverty. How did he come to be here, on this beach I called my own?

I could see in his hands a bottle, but not one that carried drink.  Sand covered, it looked to be more aged than the man who held it.  Showing through the sand was its emerald color, facets shining in the sun.  At the end of its long neck was a dark brown stopper holding the contents inside safe from wind and water.

From my vantage point, a raised hill up wind of the pier; I could see clearly there was a slip of something white in the bottle.  My curiosity was aroused; a note in a bottle, perhaps?  How romantic!  How intriguing!  And how could I find out what it was?  Could I just approach the man, introduce myself and ask him, "Sir, what's in your bottle?"  No, I was not that brave or intrusive.  But I could befriend him and perhaps learn the contents of the container he held.

I climbed down from the hill and walked toward the pier.  The man was looking out to sea and never turned my way.  Perhaps he could not hear my approach over the crashing sound of waves against the pylons of the pier.  Perhaps he did not care.

My feet made a swooshing sound as I came closer to the man.  Surely, he could hear; but he did not move.  When I was within six feet of where he stood, he spoke without turning around, "Do you believe in coincidence?"

I was so surprised I almost stumbled on the plank walkway.  I caught myself and answered him, "I don't know; I guess."

"Well, you shouldn't," he said.  "It is no coincidence that you are here today or that you saw me standing here.  Nor is it coincidence your curiosity brought you close enough for me to speak to you.  It's all part of the plan."  He still had not turned around to look at me; his eyes were still on the sea or something out beyond the water.

"Do you believe in the sea?" he asked me.  I thought this a strange question.  We were both standing on the edge of the ocean seeing the waves, hearing the familiar roar.  How could one not believe in the sea?  "Of course," I quickly answered hoping I did not sound condescending. "What is there not to believe in?  I can see it, hear it, smell it, feel the water on my skin, and even taste its saltiness if I choose.  How could someone not believe in the sea?"

"It is because you can sense it with the physical senses, this causes you to believe?"  He said it as a question.  I was intrigued as to why he was pursing this line of questioning which seemed to have no purpose.  Maybe he was just an old, confused, lonely man hoping to keep my attention.  As I considered this for a second, I immediately rejected it.  Up close, he did not look all that old and from the side view of his face I now had, he did not have the appearance of someone confused or lonely.

"I read a poem once, written by a woman in response to a man.  It was about the sea.  Do you want to hear it?" he asked, turning to look my direction for the first time.

"Yes," I responded.  "I would love to hear it."  I did not understand my enthusiasm about hearing a poem written by someone he did not even name.  He looked once more to the ocean and began to recite the poem.

We Believe in The Sea
...even though we may not see...

We believe even though we may not see
nor hear ocean waves breaking on the shore and the roar
of waters too deep to fathom.
But yet we believe.

The river flows without asking,
"Where is it that I go?"
No, it just flows on and on –
a trickle here, rushing waters there –
not knowing what it will become
nor does it care.

It just goes as is its nature
traversing the path it is given,
molding a frame to hold its girth
and in the end?
Rebirth – as ocean waters
that we may not see
and yet – we believe.

We stood silent after his rendition of the poem, almost as if it had taken us on wings and sailed us out over the ocean.  I was still aware of the mist and wind on my face and the sounds of the waves, but it was like I was "out there" somewhere – beyond.  I wasn't frightened.  It seemed right, as it should be somehow.  I closed my eyes with a feeling of reverie and just let the moment happen.  When I opened them only a few seconds later – at least that's how long it seemed – the man was gone.  The green bottle was sitting on the end of the pier.

"How did he go past me without my hearing or sensing his movement?" I wondered.  It was eerie and felt more like a dream than reality.  But the bottle was real, wasn't it?  I walked to where it sat, gleaming in the sun.  Inside, I could see its contents, a single piece of paper.  I opened the bottle, took out the note, and here is what I read: "You'll know when you get there."  That's it, I thought?  The great mystery of the bottle?  I felt disappointed somehow like the bottle would contain some grand truth I could build my life on.  How silly of me.  But when I left the pier, I took the bottle and the paper with me when I could just as easily dropped it off in the trash can nearby.

The years went by, and I thought no more about the man or the bottle even though it was somewhere with its cryptic note stored away amongst the other clutter I'd collected and could not throw away.  If that message had been meant to be a great guide in my life, I had not noticed it.

For as long as I could remember, I have always written poetry.  It was just something I did in times of distress, happiness or when just plain bored.  Some of the poems I thought quite good, others mere words strung together not amounting to much.  But there came a day, when I began to write with the thought that perhaps I was actually a poet, not just a writer of poems.  I pondered the difference.  On the internet, I joined some poetry sites, posted a few poems, received a few comments, mingled with the writing masses; and finally declared, "I am a poet."

I still had not thought about the experience I had had that September so long ago, and the bottle's message never entered my mind until I met a man, pen name: Dan Sturn – or at least I met his words – on a writing site to which I belonged.  In his portfolio of poetry, I found a collection "Bottle in the River" , and immediately connected.  It was almost as if the poems were written for me to read.  It became my habit to read one of his poems and write what I called a responsive poem to it.  He would respond to my response, sometimes poetically, other times just with comments.

When I was immersed in reading and responding, it came to my mind – the green bottle and its message.  "You'll know when you get there."  And I instantly understood.  I hurried to my computer and opened my portfolio to find a poem I thought I had written in response to one of Dan's.  Sure enough, it was the poem the man on the pier had recited to me. "Invalid Item"   My life had been a path taking me here, and I knew I was meant to be on this journey.  It was no coincidence.

My mind was flooded with memories of how I had found Dan's collection, how it had changed my life – giving me confidence and bringing me to a position of creating and teaching a poetry workshop called "The Journey."  I thought of the friends I have made through this workshop, the other poets who became a part of my journey as they continued on their own.  "The Journey" workshop that took on the heartbeat of its members and traveled a different path for each group.  It had almost created itself right from the very beginning.  I knew I did not "own" it.  I was only a traveler who had met a man, received a message from a bottle, and now knew the flow I was in was where I belonged.  My river leads to the sea, from a small trickle to the mighty ocean.  I'm not there yet, but I'll stay on the journey and "I'll know when I get there."

Words: 1585

Author's Note:  A fiction scenario with autobiographical non-fiction interjected.