Head Above Water

I woke last Sunday, yawned and said, “lets go to the ocean.”

An hour later—-without plans, expectations, or a particular destination in mind—-my husband and I were in a rented compact with an East Coast guide book.

Before turning the key in the ignition, we quickly flicked through the guide book, a childhood chant on our tongues: “Where, oh where, oh where will we go? Where will we go? Nobody knows!”

The book settled on page 70: Westport, Connecticut. A seafood pub address was listed. We plugged it into the GPS system and were on our way.

Flying down the interstate, the city clung to the landscape for a surprisingly long time. The outskirts were particularly grim, yielding acres of industrial waste, fields of high-rise public housing projects. But soon the natural world took hold again. Yellow stalks of marsh grasses extended upwards towards a rabbit-gray sky. Springtime buds dotted the gnarled twists of ancient branches. In an hour’s time, we were in Westport. Birdcalls and the gurgle of the Saugatuck River were the loudest sounds around.

We strolled the town, side-by-side, un-rushed, natural, talking. We did not have to compete for breathing space, nor shout above the roar of the city. No one asked us for our spare change nor shit their pants in front of us. No one was arrested. The dodgiest rodents around were squirrels.

We lunched at the Riverside Tavern, where we dined on sea creatures and grilled sandwiches of fancy cheese. Manhattan has a way of making everything else seem cheap.

We walked along the shore of the Long Island Sound, the soles of our feet rejoicing under the squish of unpaved earth. I put my palm in the cold water and held handfuls of slimy seaweed just for the feel. I took pictures and stole shells. It felt good to see the sky again.

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We’ve been working a lot lately. Like most young people we’ve met who live in NYC, Shaun and I both hustle second jobs (the ones we do after our regular office 9-5 gigs) just to stay afloat—-book selling (me) and freelancing (Shaun). This, in addition to the creative projects we’re involved in. We finish work close to midnight each night, eyes tired and twitching, often with a long subway commute home still in front of us. I miss my own husband. I miss my bed. New York is aging us, introducing a bitter world-wariness that’s difficult to keep at bay. This city is not a sustainable place. And escapes like this one are necessary to keep the shreds of ourselves we love the most alive.