Member-only story
TRESPASSING TALE
The Rich Found God And Stuck A Flag In His Head
the day I met the lady who owns the ocean
Every time I visit my family in Maine, I go to the same ocean spot: Kettle Cove.
It’s a beach with sand and rocks, lobster boats anchored right off shore, an old pirate island a quarter mile out, and if you look to the left of the island, you’re looking at a very special horizon, the first of seventeen hundred horizons that lead your eyes to Africa.
Kettle Cove is where a friend and I started a group called The Atlantic Swimmers Club. The idea was, we’d swim in the ocean once a month, all year long.
The club had 22 members in June. By Christmas, it was just my friend and I running across the icy beach to fall into hell frozen over, then we’d run back to a heated car, screaming.
Sometimes, the whole family comes to the beach with me, and for years, I’d amaze them by bringing a shovel and digging a crazy-deep grave in the sand.
I did this to wow the family — I’d shovel my way to blisters, then blood. And I dug my graves to mock Death, showing him I’m not afraid of his mightiest tools and toys. I can wield them too, and warp them: I used the graves as cauldrons for brewing joy.
