I grew up on a small hill about a 6-8 minute walk from the ocean. When it was quiet I could hear the ocean, but not individual waves. The sound was a constant, muted combination of a hiss and a hush, although saying it that way doesn’t make it sound as pleasant as it did. It was nice, but not nearly as nice as hearing individual waves crashing.

Sitting near the ocean now, listening to the waves, I’m reminded of a childhood memory. Between the ages of 7 and 9 my family rented a cabin or a cottage right on the beach, for a couple special occasions. One of them was a birthday party for my cousin and I, and the highlight was shooting fireworks out over the ocean, watching them both in the air and in the reflection on the water. Besides the fireworks, I only have one other memory of those cottage trips.

What I remember is fighting sleep. Unlike at home, this cottage was so close to the ocean that I could hear the waves crashing on shore. I remember the battle that went on at bedtime. After a full day of beach activities my body was ready for slumber, but I’d lay in bed trying to stay up and listen. I remember the internal negotiations going on in my head, ‘Ok, listen for 5 more waves… Ok, 5 more…’

I loved that sound so much, I wanted to stay up and listen to more. But the sound was so soothing, I was constantly fighting sleep.

I still love this sound. It soothes me; it reminds me of childhood; it recharges me. How is it that a sound can simultaneously take me back to a more innocent time and also make me feel so present and in the moment?

I’m watching surfers ride some of the waves and there’s a metaphor in this somewhere: The constant flow of waves like time… the choice of which ones to ride (which memories to hold on to)… the struggle of choosing to stay out for one more wave or to call it a day. And no matter when we are done the waves keep coming, wave after wave after wave.