“…we’ll go where the air is pure, where all sounds are soothing, where, no matter how proud one may be, one feels humble and finds oneself small–inshort, we’ll go to the sea. I love the sea as one loves a mistress and I long for her when I haven’t seen her for some time.” – Edmond Dantes, The Count of Monte Cristo, 1844
The Rising Swell Our pacific sea never is at rest. We wait, anticipate along mute shores. While a distant fetch swirls and builds and roars the mid-day zephyrs freshen sou’west. The horizon lies pink cloud-bound. The ebbing tide’s a tranquil rushing dredge. Brow lines rise, approach, surge the reef’s rock ledge-- proud shoulders build and scoop and pound. Chargers trim, hover in an arch, through spume that churns and blows and streaks they glide; brave shapes atop august swells of March spill beneath a nor’wester’s sigh. Columns feather shoreward, Again! Again! Again!-- crashing, dying, athwart the reigning wind’s command.