Called to the Sea

Josh Bloom
Aug 28, 2017 · 5 min read

“I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it is because in addition to the fact that the sea changes and the light changes, and ships change, it is because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have, in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it we are going back from whence we came.” — Pres. John F. Kennedy

It felt fitting to begin this with a quote from JFK on my last day in Ireland, where you can find his framed portrait on the wall of many a local pub to this day.

Last week, I crossed to Inishmaan in the Aran Islands through what was considered the worst storm of the year. My original ferry was cancelled because the captain refused to go out in the storm, so a few other brave passengers and I found a ferry that would try its luck, and we set off, behind schedule but emboldened with grim determination to reach our destination. The ferry was battered by squalls and driving rain as it crested hill after hill of turbulent Atlantic water, rocking violently back and forth and bouncing off the waves like an aquatic roller-coaster. Multiple passengers became ill; I stood at the front and grinned.

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I am not sure where my love of the sea came from. The only immediate family member who has spent a significant portion of her life on the water is my Aunt Linda, a seasoned sailor; I didn’t grow up on a beach — in fact, I generally dislike beaches (I have an aversion to sand); and I don’t particularly enjoy swimming, although I’m glad I learned. But people have always been called to the sea, and there doesn’t need to be any more reason to it than that, because I feel an unmistakable pull to the water whenever I’m on a boat.

Actually, that’s not completely accurate. That is broadly the case, but I will temper my declaration by noting that there is a sort of parabolic function to the strength of said pull as it relates to the size of the boat: too large, like the luxury ferry that bore me to Scotland this afternoon, and I’m bored, cut off from the rhythms, smells, and sounds of the sea; too small, like a scull, and although I can find peace and relaxation, I don’t feel galvanized by the power of the competing currents of wind and water.

I don’t have many memories of boats growing up: a few kayak excursions, a deep sea fishing trip once at summer camp, the occasional ferry. So when I walked on to crew freshman year of college, I surprised myself. My reasoning was that they were actively recruiting, it was a classic “college sport”, and that it would be “good exercise”, but since I never even looked into the cross-country or fencing programs I suspect that there may have been more at play. Being on the team was certainly rewarding in some ways and not a good fit in other ways, so I do not harbor (ha) any burning desire to join any sculling club in the future, but I do miss being out on the water, gently rowing my way back to the docks as the sun settled its way into dusk. I’ll occasionally glance at a river or lake and, if it looks nice, find myself thinking that, yes, it would be nice to slip down and softly paddle a course for a time.

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I also love storms. Some of my most vivid memories revolve around the atmosphere just before or during a storm and my intention to pass through it.

I remember the pride I felt in maybe 6th grade walking alone to a friend’s house in the next town through a snowstorm that had cancelled school. I trudged on in my boots and too-big coat because I wanted to conquer the weather (and eat the pizza promised upon my arrival).

I remember my high school Cross-Country League Championship meet in Sleepy Hollow senior year on a course I’d never seen before: how I stood at the top of the hill before the race and could feel a storm on the horizon. Energy surged through my body, and even though it didn’t end up raining until after the meet, I set a PR that day and still felt strong enough to immediately run it again.

I remember Hurricane Sandy in Providence, how Thayer Street closed down almost entirely and had window after window boarded up. Classes were cancelled for safe measure, the hurricane barrier was being closely watched, and my friends and I had a movie marathon planned, but I needed food. So a friend and I headed out to grab gyros. The storm had not yet made land-fall (and would end up mostly sparing Providence), but there was a tension in the stillness and emptiness around us, likely magnified by the lower air pressure auguring the cyclone’s arrival. Goosebumps rose on my arms and all my senses were heightened, intoxicated by the atmosphere.

And I remember a blizzard earlier this year, returning from the movies with my roommates, the three of us beating on ceaselessly through the remaining midnight snowflakes, as if to pass unharmed through them would be to also silence the blizzards of white noise wreaking static in our minds.

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So when the sea is at storm — when the waves are choppy and the wind bold and there’s a chill in the air — then I feel my body arcing with energy, as if the water in my body seeks to mirror the elements around me, and I understand Melville’s Ishmael down to the marrow of my bones.

No doubt this desire to challenge the sea ties into the wanderlust that set me on my current journey, my previously discussed fascination with fictional maps, and the awe and wonder with which I regard outer space (I’m sure Kennedy saw this particular connection, as well). Exploration is some ratio of curiosity and pride: I wonder what’s out there…and can *I* handle it? And I’d say that’s a fair description of my feelings towards the sea: I wonder what it has in store for me…and can I make it through? Generally, I would characterize myself as avoiding the self-destructive impulses that have governed many a man over the ages, and certainly: seeking to challenge storms on the open sea is a foolhardy venture, so, as a rational and practical person fond of living, I will not be rushing to a watery grave anytime soon. However, the ocean still calls to me, and I expect I’ll find myself out there again before too long, (responsibly) charting a course to adventure.

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Josh Bloom

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