Off Signal Hill, St. John's, NL, May 2008
The power of the sea awes me. Always has.
At times, I feel her running through my bones. Calling me down.*
I live by her now. When I’m away from her I miss her like a lover.
I love skimming across her in a sailboat, the slap of her waves on the sides, the flap of the sails above, the cawk of seagulls in the distance and reaching over the side to touch her silence.
I love leaning out over the deck of the ferry, any ferry, and seeing her below, the trailing white wake churning behind. The prow slicing the blue depths ahead. Then, later, she rocks me to sleep in my cabin.
I love the power of her iceberg that can pull down a Titanic, and end up innocently, in a small bay (picture above, taken May 31, 2008) slowly unfolding into her mother’s arms.
I love her greed, taking away even more of the shoreline from here, altering headlands and laneways.
I love the gifts she carries, the smooth wood, the clamshells, the feathers, the kelp, the shifting stones.
I love her fury, her temper roaring behind a wall of storming water.
I love how she plays with me, wrestles with me, carries me like a baby.
I love her bounty, the sea creatures she offers us.
I love her white horses, often racing by my window, manes flying.
I love when the fog rolls in and she immediately turns a welcoming grey.
I love the sparkling diamonds of her as she rolls around on a sunny day.
I love how she responds to the moon, her mother, running to meet her, then flouncing off for another adventure.
I love how she has given us life.
And how she can take it away if we continue to insult her.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's likea whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. John Masefield
Labels: iceberg, Newfoundland, the sea