I spent a lot of growing up time at the beach and the sucking black muck of wondrous Chesapeake Bay inlets. The sea is my second home, where I feel buoyed and also very small, where all my senses are open, aware of the albatross flying in from the west, and a blue whale’s eye on a forlorn night, and just before the next rogue wave hits, the rogue wave. When I was very ill I thought the sea would heal me, and in its own way I suppose it did—it healed me of despair when I walked on its sandy shore. Once, at Gazos Beach, I saw a great blue heron with a broken wing standing at the edge of the grass line waiting with such dignity for the coyotes to come for it in the night. I’ve posted this photo before on my blog, but I have to post it again, my black dog Rain who also healed me moment by moment with doggie antics, lolling tongue, tail wags, and wise old amber eyes. Her heart was not big enough to carry any more of my sorrow and burst one day. A dog as wise and mischievous as a mountain and loved by the sea.