eighty four


ON THE EDGE OF A DREAM

The ocean is a mystery to this lifelong land lover. My fondest memories are of vacations down the east coast with my family. We did take week long vacations to Lake Erie to fish for catfish and stay in a small cottage, and I do mean small. 

I played around fresh water creeks, rivers, ponds, and lakes, but they didn't move around like the ocean. The worst things were mosquitoes, snakes and leeches. The ocean however is filled with weird pointy and stingy stuff. I know the movie Jaws was only a movie, so sharks don't worry me. 

To the lifeguards I was the dumb Ohio kid who could get caught in a rip tide or have my face pounded into the sand while attempting to body surfing. Sand is always in your butt crack, and the water burns your eyes. On my bike I am now only a listener and watcher. I sit on the edge of this powerful force, strain my eyes to see over the horizon, ponder the movement of the tides, and listen to the endless hypnotic roar. 

I had seen the Pacific Ocean in movies and televised surfing competitions, I knew the names of the beaches years before I saw them. It had been twenty five years since I traveled the east coast; I was ready to see it again and perhaps for the first time. 

Traveling by bike takes you down every board walk, through residential areas, and sometimes on hard beaches. If I had another lifetime I would invest it in the sea, but for now I ride its edges and dream.

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