By Clyde

“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by” written by John Masefield, a London poet and seaman, who became a carpet salesman.

Looking across the horizon, it’s easy to see how you would believe the world is flat.

Even Democrats could not change your mind. We all believed the sound of the ocean was inside a shell when placed up to our ear. We listened forever, it seemed. With all this wet weather, it’s also easy to see where all that H2O comes from. At one time, steamboats were considered for the Yadkin River, but there were problems downstream before you get to floods on Town Creek at Innes Street.

There are 118 words with “sea” in them. Read them “yo-self” under “S.” When’s the last time you went to sea? “Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore.” Call me Ishmael, Mr. Melville.

Shifting sands suddenly surpassed serrated scalloped satin shells searching for sun bleached sunken sailing ships seen sinking on a silky shimmering sunset sky.

“…Savior, pilot me,

Over life’s tempestuous sea:

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rocks and treacherous shoal”

— Edward Hopper, 1871

Let’s go surfin’, watch out for JAWS! Luther, as a child was afraid he would see Japanese warships coming over the horizon after driving by big red circles painted on the S.C. stores.

Writers love the sea, oceanus from Latin — desolate, unlimited. Nobody really owns the oceans; they may have claims or territorial waters but there are no fences or walls, they would be washed away by the riptide and changing coastline.

Hamlet, N.C., may become beach property if the climate changers have their way. Mr. Valance would be richer. Jean Cras, a French composer and career naval officer, imitates a rescue at sea with fluid water music. The first ship built in America to cross the Atlantic was a pinnace at Port Royal, S.C. in 1562. In a winter return trip to France, they ran out of food and water and they killed La Chere, one of the crew, who was eaten by the rest.

Accounts of the famous once great ship, “grandly floated until the decks were at a vicious angle. The icy waters full of struggling famous people climbing deck to deck.

The dark waters follow them, angry, jealous, savage, and relentless. The last lights go out. The great iron monster slips, slides, gently glides, surely — down, down, down into the sea. The Titanic once roiled the waters that parted at her gliding as she proudly plowed the deep. Overhead, the thousand stars shine with a brightness unaccustomed.

They are not disturbed. They have beheld sights and scenes like this before” (from an account by Elbert Hubbard, 1912).

What secrets are under these troubled waters? Like a bridge, we go over them and wash them away, out of sight, down the drain. Why do we pay for stormwater? God gives it to us. “O hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea” (William Whiting, “The Navy Hymn”, 1860).

“For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind which lifteth up the waves thereof… their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro… and are at their wits end” (Psalm 107 verse 25). The power of the unharnessed waters can knock the wind out of your sails. We are too busy naming our yachts and building air-conditioned condos as a sacrifice to Neptune. So, look across the sea and imagine all the people, dead, or living for today in the sun that will never dry up the sea. Or maybe it will. “And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

Clyde is a Salisbury artist.