Constant, soothing, peaceful, ancient, reassuring, ever-changing.

John F. Kennedy once suggested that we are drawn to the sea because “in addition to the fact that the sea changes and the light changes, and ships change, it is because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it, we are going back from whence we came.”

One of the things I love most about living in the Pacific Northwest is my proximity to the sea. I can get to the Oregon coast in an hour and a half. Sometimes I just go for the day. For a fill-up.

Each time I stand at the edge of the ocean I understand once again how small and insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things. It’s a simple and profound truth, but one that’s easy to forget.

How is this a fill-up? If I’m feeling too big for my breeches, the ferocity of the sea gently files down the size of my ego for a much better fit. If I’m feeling off balance, the reliable rhythm of the sea centers me. If I'm feeling worm out, the sea energizes me. If I'm feeling elated, the sea celebrates with me. If I’m feeling angry, the sea receives my yawps and returns them to me in the form of gentle lapping at my feet.

I learned the word yawp last spring when I was hiking with my 10-year-old granddaughter. When we got to the top of the trail, we lingered to enjoy the view and I suggested we yell as loud as we could into the vastness below us. I worried she might think her grandmother was crazy. Instead, she took in a deep breath and let out a long, loud scream. She told me she’d yawped before. Lots of times. She said her dad had told her about a poem in which the poet talked about sounding his “barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” She said whenever she’s out in nature she thinks it’s a good time to send a wild cry out into the world. It makes her feel good. It makes her feel energized.

Thank you, Walt Whitman.

By far, my favorite place to experience the healing power of screaming into the void is at the ocean. The roar of the thunderous waves on the Oregon coast are perfect for drowning out my barbaric yawps, so I never worry about anyone hearing me. The deep, heavy breathing of the sea absorbs not only my cries, but also my fears, my sorrows, my frustrations and my joy. The curl of each returning wave offers hope and possibilities, and maybe, as JFK said, a return to the comforting, familiar place from whence I came. The fog on the Oregon coast is a bonus. Looking out into and walking through it is nothing short of mystical. The first time I experienced a socked-in morning on Cannon Beach, I said to Eddie: "this is what heaven must be like." 

So, that’s why I love being at the sea.

And besides, the beauty is mind-blowing. I love making photographs of the patterns and gestures of the sand, the sea and the sky.


This morning on the beach, I asked a woman who was walking by what she got from the sea. Her voice caught in her throat, and her eyes immediately watered. After a moment, she told me that her parents', her husband's and her brother's ashes are there. That she had come to visit them. 


The sea is a religious experience for so many of us, for so many different reasons.


These pictures are from the magical, healing Oregon coast, where I am always humbled and inspired.