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The Sea Will Save You

During vacation last week, Erin and I visited Arrowhead, the home of author Herman Melville. I bought an illustrated copy of his most famous work, Moby-Dick and got a whole new appreciation for the opening paragraphs, which I hadn’t read since college. It’s where the character Ishmael says:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off — then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

I relate, because when I’m depressed, the sea helps me. Always.

Mood music:

During moments of unhappiness in my younger years, the ocean was an escape route within feet of my front steps in Revere. I would sit on the rocks and think things through. I would walk from the Point of Pines all the way to the other end of the beach and back.

The process would usually take about 90 minutes — enough time to process what I was feeling. It didn’t necessarily make me happier, and much of the time thoughts just swirled around uselessly in my head. But I always came back from the beach a little calmer, a little stronger and ready to deal with whatever I had to face.

You could say the ocean would speak to me, talking me off the ledge.

I live away from the coast now, in a city sliced in half by the Merrimack River. The river has an equally calming effect on me, and I walk along it every chance I get. But every once in a while I go back to Revere or a closer place like Newburyport or Salisbury to get my pep talk from the sea.

To be fair, Ishmael’s adventure in Moby-Dick turned out to be anything but pleasant, and growing up by the beach wasn’t always sublime. The Blizzard of 1978 and the Perfect Storm of 1991 were destructive, and seeing the ocean rage as it did scared the hell out of me.

But those experiences are far outweighed by the many gifts the sea has given me.

Revere Beach Gazebo at Sunrise

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Peace at the Scene of the Crime

About the time I visited my old hiding spot behind a boat yard in the old neighborhood and found something I had lost.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/Phez1FvzGbY

During my sometimes-turbulent youth growing up in the Point of Pines, Revere, there was a place I used to go where I could be alone, smoke, drink and escape the world.

It was behind the Fowler Marine boat yard, just past a field of 10-foot-high weeds. From the walkway of Gibson Park, passers-by couldn’t see a thing. It was perfect, especially since I pretty much hated everyone at the time.

I had a lot to run from, at least in my 15-year-old mind. My home on the Lynnway, across from Carey Circle, was a turbulent place. Nothing was quite right there after my older brother died. And, a few years after my parents divorced, I had a new stepmom living there. I fought with her all the time. I guess I hated her, because she was a new authority figure in a time when I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do.

In hindsight, she was at a real disadvantage. My brother died only a few months after she appeared on the scene, and she was home the night he had that final asthma attack. She plunged the adrenaline needle in him while waiting for the ambulance because that’s what you were supposed to do in the event of these attacks. But his number was up, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

She was also there a couple months before, in October 1983, when Michael had a similar attack that almost killed him that night. The doctors didn’t think he was going to make it that night, but he bounced back from the brink just in time, just like I bounced back from the brink more than once when the Croh’s Disease was attacking me so bad that the doctors were ready to tear out my colon and throw it in the trash.

I thought she married my Dad for his business success. I fought constantly with the step-sister she gave me. I was jealous of the step-brother she gave me because he was suddenly the cute youngest kid. Before my parents divorced it was Michael, Wendi and me, the youngest. Being sick, I was also spoiled rotten. Then the step-siblings came along and Michael died, making me the oldest son, a title that carried a lot of pressure.

She also gave me a beautiful half sister in late 1985 who came along at just the right time, bringing joy to the family I never thought we’d see again.

Looking back, I was just an angry little fuck and she’s the one I took it out on. I was fat, unpopular and had watched a brother die and parents divorce with all the rancor you could expect.

I’ve learned a lot over the years.

My stepmom is a good person who has stuck by my father through all kinds of ugliness, including a series of strokes three years ago. She’s an excellent grandmother to Sean, Duncan and my nieces and nephews. We have a good relationship today.

I recently revisited my old neighborhood, including the hiding spot.

This time, it was different, because I was standing there in a state of peace rather than trouble.

On the way back to Haverhill we passed the new Paul Revere School that was built on the site of the old Paul Revere School. I went to junior high there. Those were among the unhappiest times of my life, so there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing a new building rise from the rubble of the old.

Yet another symbol of how time heals all wounds if you’re willing to take the steps to make it happen.