Image for Cold Salt Water

Cold
Salt Water

Creative nonfiction
by Stephen Allen

By train from western Connecticut, by Rockland Steamer from Boston down east, horse-drawn cart on country roads, rowboat filled with family and furniture. By car from northern Vermont, over the Green and White Mountains, to Tenants Harbor, skiff and motorboat to Spectacle Island. At some point every summer since 1911, a member of my family has stepped into the Atlantic Ocean with a tow rope to pull a luggage-laden boat the last few feet to the shore of a small island bought by my great-grandfather back when schoolteachers could still afford such things. Sneakers take days to lose the feel of salt water, and even then, no matter if set in the sun or propped against the fireplace, some stiffness still remains.

       Through the rippled windows,
       the sight of water in the cove—
       a tame tiger.

First night, and the sleeping porch is open. A light breeze shifts the rows of old wood lobster buoys strung from the rafters. Mosquitoes walk the screens, probing for holes large enough for entry, for access to the drowsing bodies suspended between floor and ceiling on groaning cots infused with the smell of attic. Too dark now for sight to matter. Touch is useless, body sunk into a sleeping bag so far the only thing to feel is heat. But the sound of the ocean is inescapable. At its calmest, a constant whisper, a lullaby when you sleep, when you wake. The buoys clunk against the walls, then oscillate to center. Does the smell of the cold salt water remind you of birth or death? If you open your mouth, can you taste the seaweed, the foam at the tips of whitecaps, the fog that keeps the shore at bay?

       A heron on the rocks
       at sunlight.
       Dawn has its stillnesses.

From the western side of the island, on a clear day, Matinic and Matinicus look as close as the nearest lobster buoy, as if you could reach them in a single step. The ocean is what stops you. No matter where you start, the ocean is where you end. The ocean is what defines the land. And it always seems to be moving further in, eating away the shore, washing up in serried waves that never stop but only get smaller. This is terrifying, and everywhere are attempts to keep it back. Sea walls, erosion prevention, beaches groomed to give the illusion of order—none of this will help. The ocean is inside you: just as the first breath you take in the morning contains at least one molecule of Caesar's dying imprecations, the tears you cry once sang in the cold Atlantic. Whatever border you may set for the ocean, your own body will be on the wrong side, passportless, unable to return.

       Transparent fronts of waves:
       a seaweed forest
       seen through tinted glass.

From above, leaning over the edge of a boat or standing knee-deep in the cove, trying to decide whether or not to dive in completely, the water is clear. Flickers of motion betray crabs, lobster larvae, small fish. Snails, limpets, barnacles bide their frozen time. Starfish and jellyfish are scarce now, the harbor ecosystem changing every year with overfishing, the new mussel farm, more and more pleasure boats striking sail and switching to motors once out of the open sea. Seven years ago last summer, coming from the shore with groceries, my father and I saw a seal watching our progress, too far away to make out any expression. It slid under water, surfacing only once more within our sight, then was gone. I haven't seen one since. But there are still enough fish for the osprey circling between the islands, screaming like frustrated children, looking for prey passed over by locals and tourists alike.

       Entering the harbor,
       our wake tilts
       at sailboats at anchor.

My great-grandmother spent whole summers up here, and every morning she would rise at dawn and swim in the ocean. One year, she kept a record of the temperatures during her morning swims, and the water never rose above 60 degrees Fahrenheit. First entry is always a shock, whether diving in knowingly or falling off a boat. At the point of contact is nothing but cold, then the light fades and your tongue tastes salt. This is the foreign country inside you, and the borders have fallen. But then you rise. Your head breaks the surface and you gasp for the summer air, lungs surprised by their own need. All the glory of the physical world is here: the rocks within reach with their tidemarks, seagulls overhead startled by your intrusion, the life beneath your paddling feet, the great expanse around you that encompasses it all. In this moment, there is nothing else, just the suspension between two worlds, and then you blink the salt from your eyes and swim to shore.

       Your breath slows,
       you come to rest,
       the cold salt water moves still.