A Tourist’s Siren Call

Today she lures you.

The music of the waves crashing in rhythm,

the gulls crying above,

the perfume of beach roses and salt-pine on the wind,

all of it beckons you downward,

toward the rock that waits like a throne at the world’s edge.

It shines in the sun,

curved and smooth,

an armchair carved by centuries of tide and storm.

Roots twist back as if to grant you passage.

You climb carefully, fingers closing on Sister Pine’s trunk,

feet testing each stone,

until you stand at last where sea and land kiss.

The throne welcomes you.

Warm granite cradles your body;

the air is full of hush and roar together.

Shoes slip off, and your toes find the bubbling surf.

The sun presses its blessing into your skin.

Peace wraps you like a spell.

Ah, this is the lullaby of Ocean,

deceptive and tender.

This peace is a lure, beloved traveler.

Beware.

Ocean, who feeds us here along this coast,

is a fickle mistress.

Her lullaby hides a darker tune

You almost drift to sleep.

But then the wind rises.

The song shifts, grows sharper.

She hurls a rogue wave at you

sudden, merciless,

slapping you from your seat

and dragging you into her cold embrace.

And in that moment of terror

you remember the bright red signs: DANGER. KEEP OFF THE ROCKS.

You remember the old man on the ridge,

his voice carried by the wind: Don’t go.

No one will scold you now,

not as they risk their own lives,

steering small boats into heavy seas

to drag you back from her.

If they can.

The sea is generous, yes.

She feeds, she soothes, she sings.

But she does not forgive.

Love her from the shore, traveler.

Do not mistake her song for safety.