A Splendid Afternoon

Baie des Anges, Nice
May 9th, 2008, 3:49 PM

Several years ago, I received a small handwrtten note from a man I loved very much, a man who meant a great deal to me.

Grace: Look at the ocean and wonder.

That man is gone now, gone from my sight. He remains only in memories, in each precious letter of that note, in the photograph of him following his own advice. He gazes into the sea, facing the horizon, the ocean stretching out at his feet.

And today I find the ocean at my feet, my face turned to the horizon.

The sailboats inch along the distant horizon, looking like the great fins of some giant creature gliding through the water in the distance. The seabirds are out fishing--they fly into the wind, wings pumping frantically although they gain no forward motion. They sustain this aerial treadmill until they tire, and then they stop flapping and let themselves be thrown backward. They watch the swells below, those hills of water that will give birth to waves. Suddenly they bank their wings, plunge into the water, come shooting back again. They are not usually successful, but the pattern repeats as long as it must.

All across the water, all the way to that horizon, tiny whitecaps appear fleetingly, peppering the deep blue of the water. The sea is coming up for air.

Closer to land, that midnight blue becomes a vivid turquoise and, nearer still, a minty green. Where clouds have filtered it, the sunlight has painted the waves a grey-green. Here in this space between green and grey , the waves build, build, begin to rise up, and as the water wrinkles they curl in on themselves, left to right, to come sighing against the shore in a white band of salt and foam. Here they linger, stretch themselves thin, then fall gently back, carrying the stones with them. The wave has two sounds: one, the crash of the water falling against itself. Two, the rattle of a multitude of stones tumbling in the aftermath.

One wave need not wait for the next. They build on each other, draw strength from each other. Slowly, ever so slowly, they approach me as I contemplate them. My thoughts seem to draw them nearer.

All along the rocky shores of Nice we are watching the sea. Children skip out into the spray, then come skipping back as the foam and spray comes chasing after them. The rest of us lie on our backs against the slant of the hill, front row seats to the natural symphony in its timeless dance at our feet. Our thoughts are our own, but with all of us scattered along the shore together it feels communal. Our thoughts belong to us, but it is the same ocean we watch. And in the same way it is communal by distance, it spans times. I think of years and years of men watching these waves, these waves that pound on from one day, one year, one lifetime to the next. And doing so I think of him.

As I step forward, barefoot, and let the waves tug at my ankles, I wonder if they tugged his. I wonder what thoughts he offered the sea, that day a photo was snapped of him watching the waves. I wonder what instinctual fascination pulls our gazes to the gentle bow of the horizon line. From here the world seems endless. As the sun begins to fall, my shadow to lengthen, I wonder at that neat seem between sea and sky. I wonder how many of us, in how many years, how many nations, languages, how many humans are bonded by the eternal call of that horizon past the waves. How many of us take time to stand in the waves, look at the ocean, and wonder.

I wonder where he is now. Sometimes I wonder that. I know we share the wisdom in his words, that watching the ocean is like a way to be with him again, but still I wonder where he went after sending his thoughts to be carried out to sea with the waves. The spray blowing against my face, the foam churning around my ankles , the sound of folding water all feel like he's still in my life. Six little words, precious in their simple beauty and precious in his handwriting, anchor his memory to my life here today.

Look at the ocean and wonder.

I'm looking. I'm wondering. I'm thinking about life and love, and I'm thinking about him.

I love him. I miss him.

--G
In memory of Larry Larson