Each morning when I step out the door with my Asics cinched tight, if it’s late enough that the sun is on it’s journey upward and light is cracking through I get this magnetic pull not northward, but east toward Blue Rocks and the end of the road where the only way to proceed would be down the slip between wharves and into the cold depths of the Atlantic over endless undulating waves.
I don’t know if I can fully explain the surge within me to run that route every day. I even consider heading that way when it’s 4:55 am and the light is non-existent which would make the road quite an obstacle in the darkness. With the sea on my right, the slow hills, the curves of the road, the quaint and prim homes, the textures of the weathered wood shakes and lobster traps, the gift of standing among the fishing shacks and rocks and water witnessing our star crest the horizon in utter solitude before tracing my strides back with the sea on my left reaching home, the place lures me in day after day.
The time I’m in Blue Rocks is the time in between. It is between the run-up to the point and the run back home. It is between dawn and day. It is the time I am most by myself but most connected and in tune with myself. It is between thought. It is between feeling alone and being swarmed by two dynamite kids upon walking through the door. It is the place I run to in order to breathe and hold the sea air. It is between breath and maybe that is why I come back every chance I get. To hold the inhale. Let the salted breeze touch the bottom of my lungs.