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My nano was an Italian fisherman.

He sailed most of the year up the Pacific Ocean from Central California (Monterey) to Alaska.

He was the designated cook on the ship, because of his talent for creating a scrumptious meal from the gifts of the sea.

I thought of him today, as I walked along the docks.

I thought of him today, and his journeys; how I wish I could speak to him now—hear his rough Italian dialect weave the ocean tales of sea monsters, mermaids, and giant jellyfish.

The sea is in my blood.

I know this now.

I can never live away from the ocean again.

The salt water is my refuge.

The seagulls my angels.

And the waves, as they move, confirmation that I am just as source intended.

Whether I wash ashore, retreat, break, or beckon onlookers, I am exactly as I was made to be—an endless ocean of mystery harboring the secrets of generations.

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