When the sea remembers how to rise.
The homeward sea rose high and wild — as if it could swallow me whole, and then give me back changed.
The morning we left, the channel was no longer gentle.
Swell stacked upon swell, and the boat lifted like a breath held too long,
then dropped into the hollow blue — a heartbeat between fear and awe.
For a moment, it felt as if the ocean might take me,
folding me into its dark-green pages.
I held the rail and counted the rise and fall:
up — sky and white spray,
down — salt and shadow.
In the noise, I tried to listen for the quiet I’d found on the island:
the fern-breath of the forest, the kingfisher’s clear note,
the bench that said, rest.
Even here, the sea kept teaching:
to yield, to trust, to ride the moving line between letting go and holding on.
Land arrived the way understanding does — slowly, then all at once.
Harbor lights steadied, the hull softened its voice,
and I realized the sea hadn’t tried to swallow me.
It had carried me — and returned me slightly new.
Some journeys end at the shore.
Mine ended in the heart that learned to listen.
glorialeeart.blog 
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