Unknowingly, I stumble upon the small town via one of two stoplights. The straight stretch of road that brings me in contains life’s necessities: the village post office, police and fire station, single gas station, and convenience store. As the sound of crashing waves pulls me in, I stroll down the block descending in elevation. The air, pregnant with the smell of salt signals my arrival by the seaside. I see the old village store and The Inn where I treat myself to an old-timey libation. As I purchase my ice cream I can’t help but find myself sitting on the worn and uneven rocks surrounding the dock. I sit and admire both the perfections: as I take in the wide-open sea with the company of my loved ones, the scenery alone can take me on a journey of my own or in full conversation reminiscing of summers past; and imperfections of the atmosphere: seaweed and rust stains from cleats that have since been replaced cover the surface.
Quickly finishing the last few dripping bites of my ice cream; my feet become damp and sand-covered from my walk to clear my fingers of my indulgence. Walking across the sprawling green grass of the town square, home base of the village makes me visualize the field of tents that make up the annual Harbor Days, the music from the Friday night car shows fills the air taking me back decades, the starting line of the annual 5K catches my eye. I ascend upon the lighthouse where I stare across the never-ending horizon of jewel-blue water. Still or rippling gently, the sailboats mimic the motion of the water and consume the surface of the harbor. Masts sink into the morning fog and stand tall in the evening, reflecting the pink and orange sunset that covers the sky. Glimpses of iridescent seashells catch my eye, half-buried in the sand. The sweatshirt I once carried now covers my skin, clammy with briny air. My pockets now become homes to the unique shells I gather as my feet shuffle through the grains of sand. The sights and sounds of the sea remind me that I am home.