Returning to port

My hobbies and ten years in the navy reflect my attraction to the sea, an evolving self-discovery of conflicting visions.

Watching the sea’s delicate orchestra of peaceful violence fascinates and thrills, luring, tempting to risk venturing a stroke too far. Sensually appealing, the ocean seduces its prey with vast expanses of barren surface while creatures dare depth’s darkness in a flirt of imagination.

Accustomed to the push-pull delights of mimicking tide, the ocean’s stinging salt air fashions crashing waves of human indifference, pledging nothing more than a rough ride home. And we must all eventually go home.

Fortunate for many reasons, I was blessed to have grown up on the East Coast while living most of my life in the West. Imagining the sun’s arc as it tracks with life’s natural progression lends ordained splendor to the sequence: my life began with the sun erupting from the water. So, it will end setting over western seas, left and right brains finally harmonized in balance.

Appreciating that alignment will come, at least with death, eases nothing. On the contrary, it assures constant struggle until that first sip of hemlock from the trophy cup, perhaps finally content with the journey’s progress. Not that it matters, but I would have it no other way.

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