So, like a child running to its mother, I hurry down the Cape Arago Highway in the Dodge to my zenith—the quay in Charleston. The sea is calm; the water glistens, the boats hurry forth. Just like always, the Grumpy J sits at her berth by the fuel dock as my quickening pace takes me down onto the actual beach where the waves are breaking.
It takes nearly wet feet to get me close enough to hissing waves; I want to hug the sea so much. The air is soft and sweet—the gulls patrol and sing. It was hard the night before—our first one back—to hear the ocean’s roar beckon at 3 a.m.—the only sound coming from the night beyond the restive whistle buoy. Homecoming is so sweet. God, how I’ve missed it.
