When I was 6 or 7 I wondered where the waves were. A 1000 mile transplant from Michigan, I arrived on a white sandy beach in Long Beach, MS and promptly found the Gulf of Mexico flat, placid, and apparently 13 inches deep for miles. The silty water, light brown and foamy. Not see through. Not really that salty. Had I had more geography under my belt I would have learned that I was in the Mississippi Sound, a secondary water specification for the area just off the Mississippi Coast but within the barrier islands that “protected” the Coast but really acted as a trap to hold all the silt from the Jordan and Biloxi rivers and all the tributaries that feed into them. I wanted to surf and cared little for the science behind the why.

The islands became a bit of a fascination. Cat, Ship, Deer, Petit Bois and Horn. The Chandeleur were out there beyond. Some visible from the land, Cat Island’s west end seemed to line up with where my street spilled onto the beach. 8-9 miles away, a grouping of pine trees like a beacon. Calling me out to it.

There were supposed to be roads on Cat Island and Deer Island too. Ill fated attempts at colonialism. Stilted houses once built on some of them. 7 year old me thought it would be killer to live out there. Until I got out there and was almost at once carried away by horse flies big enough to consider it.

Our first trip out to Cat Island on our sail boat was a comedy of errors. We sailed straight out to that Western tip, ran aground, and battled wind and drifting for the rest of the night. I feel like we made it to shore for 10 mins or so but roads and stilt houses weren’t discovered. On further trips we went around to Pirate’s cove on the southeastern side and enjoyed a protected area. My dad, ever the purveyor of a strange bad luck with anchors, still ensured we drifted around all night, making for less than restful sleep.

As protectors of the Coast, these islands take perennial beatings by the hurricanes rolling off the coast of Africa, slowly gaining speed across the Atlantic and either jumping Florida or entering the Gulf from the south to soak up the heat and power of the hot waters lying on top. Rocket fuel for hurricanes. The island’s shape ebbing and flowing with the time between each storm.

I could go on about trips to Ship Island to the east (more anchor dragging) and the civil war era fort on the western shore of its sandy beaches. Of a swim team party there when Henry Edy got drunk and had to be carried back to the tourist boat. Of Deer Island off the Coast, so close it looks like you could reach out and touch it. An irony that the closest I ever got was swimming it’s length in the early evening of a long night in the water. I didn’t really plan on coming here today to describe islands. I thought of a wave, and the rest occurred.

One would think that living a mere 200 yards or so from this body of water for over a decade, that I would have spent many more hours in it. On the beaches. But really it became no more outstanding than a suburban strip mall, a site you grow immune to with time. It’s a shame really, and as I’ve gotten a bit older, the Coast calls out from its strength. From the water. The sand. The far off islands that remain mostly unchanged. There’s something in the air there that turns time into syrup. For me it creates a longing for my youth. That center chest pull of nostalgia and lost time. The callings of “remember when’s” and “if I’d only....”. They are mostly not melancholy thoughts. Mostly.

They’re the sounds of 80’s bands and the music of my teenage years. Of discovery. The tapes of my daily drives to school to the West, first as a passenger in Roger Maxey’s VW beetle, 8 tracks playing, no heat, me reading Helter Skelter in the backseat while Prince played on the 8 track, forever associating Charles Manson, Vincent Bugliosi, murder and Prince’s Kiss. The Beastie Boys, Smithereens and U2 on the way to school. REM, The Smiths and Hoodoo Gurus as I drove around looking for parties that didn’t exist. The islands. Silent off the coast. Prehistoric likely. Ever present and seemingly omnipotent.

The Coast is forever trapped in a loop of renewal and deterioration it seems. The summer storms washing away some homes and letting others survive to be patched back together. A one step forward, two steps back dance of architecture. Rebirth draped in a bit of sadness for what you remembered of the place. There’s reminders of times well spent in specific buildings followed by a stitching of memories. A jacket made of patches. “That’s where the outside skating rink was that I had my 9th birthday party at. It was a concrete path weaving through oaks. Then it was a bar. Then it washed away.” you’ll think as you pass Courthouse Road in Gulfport, MS. “There was a gas station here. Once when I was 17 I walked out with a case of beer and my best friend Scott’s parents pulled up beside us in the parking lot. I looked his mom straight in the eye cradling 24 beers and got in the car and left. She called at 7 am to tell him to come home, but didn’t rat me out.” 17 year old me learned that Mimi Heitzmann was no rat. No one likes a rat.

Mornings like this are good for my soul I think. Exercises in memory and of snapshots in time. They offset the times when I’m here floundering. You get that goodness to offset that seeming strife.

This morning I saw a friends kid surfing and I thought of a wave.

Or at the least. A wish for one.

#hugsandhi5s