There's something magic in the words, something undefinably delightful. Hearing the words makes me feel like I'm ten again and I'm leaving at three in the morning for vacation. Maybe it's the crying gulls or the crashing waves. Maybe it's the salt-seasoned air or the sand in your hair. Maybe it's the adventure.
Maybe the ocean is not as magic for you as it is for me. But I didn't grow up near the beach. I grew up in Michigan. And while we had the Great Lakes and miles of shoreline, it wasn't the ocean. It was something lesser. The ocean was in all ways better: bigger, more romantic, warmer, boundless, storied, fantastic, salty, other. When I'm at the ocean, I feel as if anything might happen. Poseidon himself might emerge from the blue-green depths with his barnacled trident and utter prophetic riddles in classical Greek. Blackbeard might put to port laded with treasure. Out there, in that wide expanse, There Be Dragons.
Here I am again. The ocean rushes out before me luxurious with power. It playfully exhausts my children and the children who come after mine. Here I am again, enchanted.