Hell Hath No Fury

The crash of the ocean waves deafened the calls of the gulls skimming above the water. The waves were strong and powerful and ended up lapping the gritty sand like a creek water cousin. The churning waves caressed each other like fumbling, first lovers, but it was, in its own right, a definition of grace. They were like licking tongues of a noble cat; they were grand. The sunlight highlighted each crest like a dancer’s snowy arched arms. If mortals were to know the mix between an angel’s flight and God’s furious wrath, the ocean would be it.

The noble hero of the sphinxing ocean stood on a rocky cliff and towered over the marine chaos below. It had a raying eye that shot over the tides longer and quicker than the moon. It was able to tell the lost souls where land was. It was able to help them cheat certain death and risk the chance of their vessels being splintered like scattered matches fallen from a matchbox. The lighthouse helped men cheat death.

The beast’s witching hour came and raced and stretched and yawned its salty jaws along the shore at high tide. It engulfed everything in its path without even the thought of perhaps savoring it. It was like a voracious lion going after its first kill…every night. It started several miles out into the depths of the abyss of night and charged forward like a herd of wild horses, racing past other waves, racing in the moonlight, racing past the lighthouse’s gaze until it collapsed on the sandy shore several feet past the other waves, and it pulled back. With as much force as it had surged, the tide was just as graceful and slow like a wakening beast.

The lighthouse could not control the beast nor could the small darting vessels beyond the shore. Every sane person knew that when near or in the ocean, you were at its mercy. The same wave that could lull the vessels along the shore could just as easily lull the vessels into the sharp rocks that guarded the lighthouse. The fool that believed he could tame the ocean was the same fool whose casket was prayed over – empty – because he was lost at sea.

Those three words, “lost at sea” meant the difference between relieving distress and torturing mystery. When one says “lost at sea” there is always a flickering hope that, perhaps, one truly is lost and will someday find his way home guided by the warm arms of the lighthouse. On the other side, there is always that chance that there is no hope or expectation of the lost coming home – they are and will forever be lost at sea. The ocean has won when a widow’s salted cheeks mirror that of the ocean’s smiling face.