I’ve had this idea about staying in a house on the ocean. Where it’s the only house for miles in either direction. And the windows are so big, being inside is like being outside without the wind. Where I walk down the steps from the front door and my bare feet are in sand. The ocean close enough to be able to see and hear the waves, the beach empty of people.
When we first got to the motel on Monday, I was annoyed by the high balcony railing obstructing the view of the water from our room. I had to sit on the table to see over it.
But as I laid in bed on Tuesday morning, I looked through the glass door, and seeing the ocean in slices between the bars of the balcony, I watched the sun on the water flashing like fireflies on a June night. I felt the horizon drawing me out of myself. I knew all that was between me and the water, including, Route 1, the parking lot, and the high cement retaining wall. But it didn’t matter. Because from that angle in the bed, the illusion that I could step off our balcony into the water felt real. And I drifted with the sunlight on the water, in an out of sleep.
Later, I thought of that unobstructed view from my fantasy beach house. I’ve had this picture in my mind for so long I had to think about where it came from. And I realized it was more about wanting to be alone, wanting to escape my life, than a dream vacation. And since that’s not something I want anymore, I don’t know where that house fits in.
Sure, having an unobstructed view from our motel room would be nice. But Jon and I don’t need an isolated beach house to enjoy spending time together at the ocean.
And on this trip, I got from the ocean just what I was looking for, even if it wasn’t right out my door. To walk on the beach, to watch and listen to the waves, to let the ocean empty me out and fill me up with all its certainty.