When I was 12, I went to sea. I went to sea to see the sea. I had yet to see the sea until I was 12. Then the sea I saw, and the sea, she saw me.
We hated each other.
I had romanticized the sea, reading stories and poetry and all the great paintings of roiling waves and citrus sunsets, and salty captains and scruffy sea dogs. It got so I could smell the sea without having smelled the sea. And I couldn't wait to see the sea. So I went.
The sea, she was not pleasant that day. The color of school bus seats, the smell of a busted fridge. She did not care for visitors. She was fussy.
But I was too excited, and I could not wait. I had to go to sea. But the sea, she disappointed me. She smacked me and pouted, and I left bereft of sea love.