The Pacific

Summary

The author reflects on the rare occurrence of a tranquil Pacific Ocean, contrasting it with its more frequent angry, white-capped waves, and ponders the ocean's moods.

Abstract

The Pacific Ocean, as observed by the author over nearly seven years, is seldom as peaceful as its name suggests. Typically, the ocean is filled with the sounds of breaking waves, wildlife, and even distant traffic, but on rare occasions, it falls into a profound silence that truly embodies the term 'pacific'. The author has witnessed this stillness only once, where the swells were so gentle they did not break, creating an atmosphere of complete silence. Conversely, there are days when the ocean is tumultuous, with high winds, towering swells, and a deafening crash of white-capped waves that give the impression of anger. Despite this, the author muses on the possibility that the ocean's energetic state could be playful rather than angry, acknowledging a lack of understanding due to not having 'water parents'. The piece concludes with a link to the author's personal website, hinting at a deeper exploration of their identity and experiences.

Opinions

The author finds it unusual for the Pacific Ocean to be still and silent, having experienced this phenomenon only once in seven years.
The author perceives the ocean as typically noisy, with the sounds of waves, seals, and other ambient noises being a constant presence.
On particularly windy and wavy days, the ocean is described as looking angry due to its white-capped waves and loud crashing sounds.
There is a hint of humor and self-awareness as the author questions their ability to interpret the ocean's mood, given their lack of 'water parents'.
The author seems to appreciate the diverse moods of the ocean, from tranquil to tumultuous, suggesting a deep connection with the natural environment.

The Whiter the Angrier

Image by Author

Odd thing this: The whiter the ocean — the angrier

In going on seven years now, I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean perfectly still (as in pacific) but once.

And by still, yes, I mean not a single swell — for, even if only a few inches high, they break once they reach shallow enough water and they rustle when they break — even if in a whisper by normal standards.

Still would be swells so slow and so shallow (if at all) as not to break, and the ocean then, finally, living up to its name.

And it’s silent.

Ninety-nine days out of a hundred (as I walk past it) you hear the ocean. You hear a lot of other things, too, seals in the main, cars off and on — but not to a disturbing degree, the occasional gull (lots of them about, but mostly mum) and you also hear the ocean: as the long, lazy swells break, the sound of a trillion, trillion, trillion water molecules turning over and crashing down is ever-present, some days (depending on winds and tides and swells) louder (or much louder) than others.

But then there’s day hundred. And not a sound — it’s as if even the seals have got the message. Tranquil. Pacific.

No white in sight.

A very pacified, content, happy water.

Then there are the days, say ten or so at least of every hundred, when the wind is up, storm-like, the tide is high or rising, the swells are measured in feet rather than inches, and the spindrift tears through the air and would scream if it had a voice: the crashing is bordering on deafening, the water mostly white, and angry.

Or could be playful. What do I know? I don’t have water parents.

The Pacific

The Whiter the Angrier

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