I remember the first time I ever saw the ocean, at nine years old on a family vacation at Myrtle Beach. For some reason, the very thought of it, it’s size and vastness always terrified me yet, since I was a small child, there was a strong pull in the back of my mind to see it. We arrived at our campsite after dark and, once it was set up, my dad decided to take my sister Sandy and I to the beach to see it. He had told us stories of his three month adventure on a navy ship and we asked many questions about its size, depth, and the creatures that lived within – though this was pre-jaws so the thought of sharks never entered our minds. It was a dark night with no moon when we walked down to the beach, which must have been somewhat near our campsite. All I remember was hearing the waves crashing into shore but seeing nothing except billowing, shadowy figures walking the shorelines; just like us. It was scary and I couldn’t wait to go back to our safe tent. I know we went to the beach on the subsequent days but I have no recollection of the ocean during that trip.
It wasn’t until, as a teenager spending my summers in Panama City, that I fell in love with the sugar white beaches on the Gulf. The memories of the soft warm breezes and the smell of salt in the air, riding the waves – when there is no post-hurricane undertow - collecting shells, digging for sand dollars with our toes, and just listening to the sound of the waves lived in my mind when I settled in the north during my twenties, thirties and into my forties.
The ocean called me every year as I watched the leaves change colors and drop from the trees. I heard it calling during many winters while sitting in a window watching snow fly. After the internet came out, the closest I could get to it was pulling up beach pictures, wishing I was there. I fell in love with the ocean all over again after moving to the Gulf Coast and it comforted me during the loss of Mom, when I had no close friends to walk that part of my life’s journey with me.
The ocean called me every year as I watched the leaves change colors and drop from the trees. I heard it calling during many winters while sitting in a window watching snow fly. After the internet came out, the closest I could get to it was pulling up beach pictures, wishing I was there. I fell in love with the ocean all over again after moving to the Gulf Coast and it comforted me during the loss of Mom, when I had no close friends to walk that part of my life’s journey with me.
The ocean still terrifies me! Sometimes I lay awake thinking about its raw power, or the depth, or of tsunamis. I lay sleepless with all kinds of horrible scenarios, vowing be more careful (not that I’m already not) and to never go out there in a boat (which I don’t). As a child, Kare (my sister) and my biggest fear was falling asleep on the beach lying on a raft and waking up floating in the middle of the ocean and not seeing land. We’d drum up such visions while lying in bed at night (when we should have been sleeping) and scare ourselves to half to death, even before we ever saw the sea. On the Gulf, I have many friends who work offshore or who sail, or ‘cruise’, most of whom have their own ‘rogue wave’ stories and I listen rapturously, hanging onto every detail that heightens my fear, only to find myself longing to be at the beach when weekend comes around, and never wanting to leave when it’s time to go home.
One of my fondest memories is the post-oil-spill Jimmy Buffet concert. Though there were tar balls on the beaches, the sand was still sugar white and, on that 95 degree day, there was a beautiful breeze that made the heat not only bearable, but comfortable. The sun shone brightly in the blue skies and the gulf was as smooth as glass – or at least pretty waveless – and crafts from pontoons to sailboats, speedboats, and yachts anchored along the coastline in the emerald green water where Jimmy Buffet, a native from this area, gave his concert. His song Margaritaville was originally written about Gulf Shores/Orange Beach, Alabama. 
They had such a huge part of the beach blocked off so that we didn’t have to be in the crowd. In fact, we sat on blankets quite a ways back and could see and hear perfectly. We grieved for the damage that was still taking place that very day - around day 80 of the oil spill; as hundreds of thousands of gallons were spilling into the gulf daily. We wondered if that could be the last of the Gulf as we knew it; or if life on the coast would never be the same. We were scared of what the future held but basked in the moment of the ‘here and now’, grateful for what we had, and vowing never to take the ocean for granted. Yet, her strong, beautiful, sparkling waters comforted us, and she reassured us, that she, too, was fighting for her own life.
Now we prepare for Isaac, which is nothing new to the ocean. As I sat on the beach yesterday watching the waves roll in, I wondered what it would be like on Tuesday. ‘Would the very spot I’m sitting on be hundreds of feet offshore?’ ‘Will the beach be destroyed?’ ‘What does the angry sea look like when it is being tossed about by a storm with a name?’ I’m very curious, yet I don’t want to find out! But one thing I do is look to the creator of the sea and give thanks for its beauty, its fierceness, and life-giving forces that we so often take for granted. Hurricanes only hit on average, about every 23 years to the same area, though all season every year we are on watch. But in spite of it all, on the Gulf Coast, the living is easy, gentle, and slow. As we prepare for the hurricane, I think of those I love near and far, and those who have touched my life along the way; and I vow to love more, live more, and play more.
My mind goes back to the ocean, as terrifying as it can be, I think of its beauty, and for the first time, I understand and marvel at the similarities between our relationship with the sea and that with God. We respect it, yet we are terrified of it. It loves us whether or not we love it back. It nurtures us and we work it and reap the fruits. But if we cross it, or disrespect it, we reap the consequences. An old saying comes to mind: ‘Never turn your back on the sea, because you never know what it’s going to do.’ We don’t know what it’s going to do, and I do my best to follow that advice. But I will always be glad that, in spite of my fear, I have fallen in love with the ocean because of the life it gives me, the peace it brings, its ability to wash away the not-so-good memories with each wave that rushes back out to sea, and it brings in fresh life to my spirit, telling me that, no matter how bad the storms may be, there will always be the morning after.