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Retired publishing executive ecstatic with the idea of spending most of his time on the coast of Maine

Friday, February 14, 2014


The storm Pax* blew through last night. It wasn't as bad here on the coast as it was inland. The snow was heavy for a while but turned to rain in the night; the wind was high but not so bad as to knock down our trees; but the surf this morning is marvelous.

The bay itself is relatively calm. The turmoil comes from deeper down and starts to show itself just a hundred feet from shore. It's almost high tide. I get warning of the big ones, since the shore is angled such that the surf first strikes a bit to the south, and I look up from the screen to see five- and six-foot waves mounding up and arching, and the white crests curl over and violently claw at the rocks below the bank, ending in a spray and a hiss. The eye is mesmerized.

But it's the sound that truly captivates. Deep, elemental, cloacal, it strikes the lowest register of nature's scale. Organs seem to vibrate. The ocean is making its deepest possible prayer. We on the land receive it gratefully.

*This business of naming winter storms is ridiculous, another over-hyped way to attract the eyeballs and ads of our paranoiac society. Also, Pax? Weather Channel, do you know what that means?

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