Peace, and the Pacific

Copyright © 2017

by Ralph F. Couey

There is something peaceful, even hypnotic in the sound of a beach on a calm day.  The waves roll in, responding to impulses of wind and tides originating far out to sea.  A small rolling hill emerges from the flat seas, moving shoreward.  As it closes the beach, it slows down and grows.  At the point where the top of the wave is moving faster than the base, the top begins to curl.  Looking carefully, one might spot fish caught in the translucent green-blue wall.  A line of foam appears and the crest curls forward, creating a tube.  Then with a sort of muffled "whoomph" the water hits the sand, followed by a hissing as the water races over the sand, almost as if it were taking a breath after a long, tough journey.  The water glides in before running out of momentum, and returning to the sea.  In sharp counterpoint, seagulls contribute their characteristic shrill cries.

If watched long enough, it can be viewed as a sort of stylized dance, the movement gracefully and deftly repeated.  The soundtrack of that dance has long been a tonic for troubled souls.  As I stand here today, it is with a bit of sadness, realizing that our presence in California was temporary, and will end in a matter of days.  The ocean, particularly the Pacific is so much a calming influence.  One could be stuck in traffic, the frustration building.  Then suddenly, you round a curve, and there it is; the Pacific, stretching to the far horizon in all it's gentle blue beauty.  No one cannot be changed by that sight.

In our time here, I've made several trips down to the shore, ostensibly to get my walking in.  But after my six or seven miles, I will always wander down to the surf line, and spend some time watching and listening.  Those moments will go with me, a priceless memory stored away in both mind and heart.

In my lifetime, I've been privileged to see many incredible sights.  Hong Kong from the harbor, the magnificent cone of Victoria Peak rising into low clouds.  The majesty of the Colorado Rockies in winter.  The riotous colors of a Pennsylvania autumn.  The ominous red glow of Kilauea volcano lighting up the night sky.  A pod of dolphins effortlessly surfing on the bow wave of my ship slicing through the Indian Ocean.  The perfect symmetry of Mt. Fuji seen from the sea.  But of all I've seen, nothing has touched me as completely as the ocean I call my own, my old friend, the Pacific.