I'm just returned from the Big Sur coast. I still get whiffs of campfire as I write, don't worry -- a shower is on the horizon. However, I've got to mellow in my adventures, mull over my photos and review the massive landscapes that seem to be another world away. I can't really put this wild sweep into words. Words just don't do it justice. But, I read this poem out loud last night in our tent, with the sound of the river in my ears and the sand still gritty in my hair. When I read the first line my mum said, "Oh dad (Grandpa Field) used to say this one all the time."
It seems to put my coastal adventures into perspective, better than my words ever could anyways.
Sea-Fever
I must down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
~John Masefield
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