I’ve grown up with some very romantic ideas about the ocean,
loving tales of adventure on the high seas.
A view of open water is magical to me, completely humbling and
completely beautiful. From childhood
I’ve seen the ocean as a place of mystery and wonder, somewhere the imagination
can roam at will. In the last couple of
weeks, I’ve heard these sentiments echoed; I’ve encountered more than one fisherman
who spoke of his love of being on the water – of the sense of freedom it brings.
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Boats moored at New Bonaventure(Photo: Claire McDougall) |
Things are never simple, though. In communities that are closely tied to the
ocean, and dependent on it in many ways, relationships with the water are
necessarily complex and multi-layered. A
conversation I had a couple of days ago really brought this home to me. Two women described their intense aversion to
the water. One cannot bear to watch when
her son goes down to the wharf. The
other has lived in Keels for thirty-eight years (her husband was a fisherman
for twenty-one of those) and, in her time here, she has been out in a boat
twice.
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Keels Harbour(Photo: Claire McDougall) |
Their comments struck me very deeply. I’ve been trying to imagine living my life,
constantly facing something that was a source of intense fear, and I’ve found
it very difficult. The ocean has the
power to provide (great bounty at times) but it also holds the power of life
and death. It seems this power is easier
to accept when it is being faced directly.
As in so many things, that which is unknown is the most frightening… it
is the waiting and not knowing that is difficult to handle.
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