We all stalk a certain coastline. We were born to it. I call it Ego Beach. This shore defines us, because we have defined it ourselves, mapped it out using the tools of our childhood; genetic paper folded, crinkled in the wind; pens of experience, a legend drawn out of nurture and the sights and sounds shaping the dunes of our being like high tide and a hard nor'easter.
At night, mists flow off of the ocean, siren, fear and hope mix in the sound of le mer, sea of possibilities (seize the possibilities- thank you P.Smith). Ghost crabs scuttle from hole to surf. The lights of boats flicker off, somewhere deep and dangerous, behind cloud and off-land, a party maybe or a lone sailor tossing and turning, playing his millionth game of Solitaire by a kerosene space heater, hazard.
The sea is the whole of our unknown, what could happen, what might be. "Those were pearls that were his eyes." There are depths and drownings and foreign lands and castaways and dragons and land ahoy! and icebergs the size of Rhode Island and jungles and cities filled with spice and the smell of procreation.
That pier to your north is my words. Its wooden beams and pilings are made of the things I'll say and the poems I'll write. Its sea-reach is laughable, but it offers light and a shelter. It sways like a boat, gives the impression of adventure. Sturdy enough, it will last the hurricane. It's not the boat I wanted to build you, but it gives off a nice illusion of reach, a tiny finger into the deep, safe, and made just for you and your wandering mind and your ocean heart.