We live in a house across the road from the ocean, I can’t really say beach because that would be a lie. It’s a stretch of coast that sings a sirens song to Instagrammers, each hoping to capture that perfect image of massive moving water against a turbulent sky. I am not immune to this myself. I have a folder on my laptop full of sunset moments.
Sometimes I sit at my kitchen table and look at the Cook Strait and imagine what it would feel like to live in the sea. To exist in that liquid landscape between frothy white horse and ocean rock. How the water would feel like silk on my skin as I floated in the glimmery depths. Running my hands over pebbles, slipping through fronds of seaweed as I let my watery home move me where it wanted me to go. If I became a fish would I have any human concerns? Or would I just drift and float, letting the water be the totality of me.
Rob says it’s a wondrous thing, to look at the ocean and see it as something so separate from us yet to be so connected to it, mother nature and all that jazz.
I grew up in kiwi villas with gardens. Grass, plants, gravel paths, trampolines and concrete driveways for roller skating. This is what I knew. So sometimes I’d say to Rob that sure the ocean’s a crowd pleaser, but wouldn’t it be great to move to a leafy suburb so we could cultivate a garden for flowers and herbs?
I’ve spent a lot of time sitting at this kitchen table looking at the water, imagining it on my skin, letting my eyes drift back and forth with the ceaseless iteration of the waves. And it is starting to occur to me that I’m not really a flowers and herb garden kind of person. Not yet anyway.