Amo marem

I'm trying out the motto, I love the sea, or Amo marem.

I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.

That is not strictly true.

This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.

I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.

My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.

My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.

I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.

The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.