Pierre Bonnard, artist.
This is where I am most at home.The sparkling, restless sea.The softness of the sea breeze, the pounding of the surf on timeless rocks.The treasures in shells and creatures that captivate a child and settle an adult.
The minute I see the white caps in the distance, I feel a a certain excitement.This is endless.This is immense.
I am alone on a rock with a stick poking at a small crab trying to dislodge it to take it home.Totally alone but captured by the moment when the sand sings over the rocks, the wind howls with the waves Later, my feet in the sand seem to dig in of their own accord as the tide pulls the water out.
It is surprising that I love this sea knowing what I know.Having seen the drowning of a young husband in the sight of his wife and having heard the story of another.This story told by a new boyfriend on a first date in 1964.His best friend, who was with us, asked the question,"What happened ?"And then the story of himself, a seventeen year old boy, his brother,15 and their Dad in a small boat on the Atlantic off Jones Beach, fishing in what seemed calm waters.A storm came and washed the Father out of the boat; the older boy grabbed his hand and held on until he couldn't.I have so many questions now.How did you get back to shore? How did you tell your Mother? How do you live with that memory?
The sea, the sea.Everlasting, unfathomable, forever.