Salt Water in My Soul

Two little sailors ready to take on the world

I turned 50 on Long Beach Island. Although I don’t live here anymore, it seems a fitting place to celebrate … in this place where my roots have been laid so deep. I am 50. Why not come “home” and rest awhile?

I’m not supposed to know this, but my family is arranging a party while I sit on this bench by the bay with my journal in hand writing my thoughts and feelings as I’ve been instructed to do. My family has sent me on an Island journey (I’m sure to keep me busy for the day).

I have traveled from merchant to merchant. When I arrive I tell them, “I’m the birthday girl,” and in every shop I receive a little gift along with instructions for my next stop. That’s how I got my journal. It’s been a whirlwind day and now I’m at the bay. Writing.

I love the bay. I prefer its gentle lapping upon the shore to the rough and tumble of the ocean. Most of all I love the smell and sounds of the bay. The smell of the gas and oil mixture boats use for fuel transports me to that time when I was learning to water ski. I remember the fierce tug of the water trying to force me back into the drink, and it succeeded more times than not. But then there was that jubilant day when I held on just long enough to pop out of the water and soar on the skis. At that moment I was queen of the world and I knew I could do anything.

As I sit here watching, listening, and reflecting, I remember learning to swim in the bay. We just walked down the end of Fourth Street in Surf City, waded into the water, and were taught to dunk our heads, hold our breaths under water, float face down, but most glorious of all ... float on our backs with the cool salty water hugging our bodies and the sun kissing our faces. In that moment of reflection I was sure I could feel my mother’s hand holding my head and gently releasing me to float upon the calm water all by myself.

As I sit here watching, listening, and reflecting, I remember walking out on the salt marshes at the end of Fourth Street in Surf City (when my Island roots were being cemented, there were no houses on the make believe peninsula at the end of Fourth Street in Surf City), tying bunker to my string, lowering it in the water, and standing at the ready ... net in hand ... just waiting for a big blue claw to take the bait. When I got bored I ran around exploring the marsh holes and collecting hermit crabs. My mother said I was always coming home with critters and dinner!

As I sit here watching, listening, and reflecting, I remember learning how to row a boat. Off we would go, we sailors, carrying our tiny craft, launching it at the end of Fourth Street in Surf City, heading out for great adventures that were only found on the bay. In reality we weren’t allowed to go far, “just to the Surf City Yacht Club and back,” but that was just far enough for young girls to imagine narrowly escaping pirates, pretend to be almost tossed in a storm, or envision ourselves as worldy sea travelers.

As I sit her watching, listening, and reflecting, the wind is blowing gently through my hair and through my body taking with it all stress, worry, and negativity. In return I receive joy, laughter, calm, comfort, and well-being. Sailboat tethers are slapping against their masts like wind chimes upon my soul. The Gulls are singing happy birthday just for me. I know I’m 50, but just for this moment I’m seven. And just for this moment as I sit watching, listening, and reflecting my soul is restored. And I am home.