I was nine years old the first time I met the Ocean. My dad, who was born in Bellingham, Washington, and lived there for the first 12 years of his life, was like a salmon who had to return to his birth waters as often as he could. We packed up the family and drove to the Northwest pulling an Aljo travel trailer with a ‘57 Buick station wagon. We went to Harris Beach Park in Oregon. The magic of tidal pools and surf totally took me in.
I remember gazing at my first tidal pool. There were fish, crabs, starfish, sea anemone, and stillness all for my enjoyment. I loved the streams and rivers of Colorado but the size, smell and diversity of the Pacific took me in. We went clam digging and shell collecting. I had my first fish and chips from the dock. I fell in love with the sea.
Over the years I have been blessed to spend a lot of time at and in the ocean. In 2001 I got certified to SCUBA dive and spent a week in Cozumel with my brother Charley visiting the world 90 feet under the Pacific. Words are too puny to describe everything we saw.
Mary Kay was not an easy recruit for joining me on a cruise ship. So we tried an experiment. We took a seven day Disney package to Florida, three nights on the brand new SS Magic and four days in the Park. She quickly got over her fear of too much water.
Over the past 25 years I have been fortunate to sail a whole lot. People have asked me what I like best about cruising. “That’s easy… the ocean.” Today I am on the North Atlantic. I will be here five more days until we reach Great Britain. There is something very reassuring about the vastness of the water. As I type this I am looking out at a very gray and wet view from the warmth of a comfortable seat in the Dutch Cafe. We stopped in Bermuda three days ago. I found out that there was a very strong connection between that little spot east of Virginia and the Jamestown settlement. My immigrant roots go back to the 1630’s in that colony.
I think of those ancestors who braved the unknown to find a new life. It’s hard to grasp what a trip across the Atlantic was like, crammed on a sailing ship with humans seeking a better life.
In 1944 my dad took his first trip across the Atlantic. He was an instructor pilot/officer at the glider base in Alliance, Nebraska. On June 7, 1944 the base was shut down and the remainder of those stationed there were on their way to Europe to fight Nazi evil. My dad shared with me that hundreds of gliders were part of the Normandy operation on June 6. “Mark, one quarter of all the glider pilots who went in that day were killed in the first 24 hours.” A glider was the equivalent of a “one and done” paratrooper. Each one carried 13 troops and a half-track combat vehicle. It seems so crude now but there were over 4,000 gliders who participated in the liberation of Europe.
Next Thursday we port in LaHavre, France where I will take a nine hour tour to Omaha Beach and the museum and grave yard. I will be sharing that experience with you as it unfolds. After his one combat mission in Holland in August of that year, he flew co-pilot on a C-47 supply plane. I asked him “what exactly did you do?”. “We flew supplies up the Rhine River to the front line.” “What kind of supplies?” “Oh, things like gasoline, water, food, ammunition, fresh troops.” “Did you ever get shot at?” “Every day.”
My dad got to come home. He never spoke an unkind word about the Germans, or for that matter about anyone ever. My dad helped to show me the world. He took us to many wonderful places and introduced us to the ocean. It charms me now more than ever.
Onward and Upward,
Mark
Lyfting Me Up 