As strange as it seems, I had never seen Crescent Beach in daylight. I once stood on the footpath next to it in the chill of a winter evening, the scent and sense of the sea coming to me through the dark with only moonlight illuminating the waves. That night my friend and I shared a dinner with the men we love in the coziness of Pelagos Greek Restaurant right at the water's edge. Candlelight, calamari, and a nice red wine, the windows steamed up by the warmth of good food and friendship, set the scene. Above the music of their voices I thought about the mysterious paths our lives take and how we all ended up together.
The Wired Monk, and talked about these things, and more.
We shared stories of our families. In August of 1880, mine left Tacoma in a small boat to become some of the first few settlers on Vashon Island. Hers arrived in Nova Scotia in 1752. Their blood is our blood. Their ghosts influence our yearnings. We summon them through legends of the dreams and dramas of their lives and connect with them as if time meant nothing.
No words are necessary to explain the call of the sea. We "sisters" will walk that beach again and leave our footprints in the sand. The tide may wash them away, but it can never obliterate where we came from and who we are, which are one and the same.