“The Cliffs”
by Eileen Kaeser
It seemed like a warm day, but at sea it was freezing. While conditions were right for a day on the water, the little boat was swift in its tour of the islands, cutting through the wild Atlantic wind and choppy waters. It was the onset of their journey, and while there was a chill in the air, it hadn’t yet permeated their coats, hadn’t seeped through the layers upon layers they hoped would withstand the cold.
They were an energetic bunch. A boy poked fun at his sister in the front. A girl took videos on her phone of the wake churning behind the boat. Two women chattered towards the back, both sitting in the middle. An Irish woman and an American. Both had brought their daughters, both made their families lock their phones in the boat company’s storefront. They had met while donning the extra coats and overalls provided by the SeaSafari company, cracking jokes to each other about whether or not the boat would tip, if their hats were bright enough for the coast guard to find them if they fell in. The American was louder, by no fault of her own, yet the voice of the Irish woman was clear over the droning of the motor—soft and gentle, but clear.
She was boisterous by nature, striking up a conversation with anyone and everyone before the outing began. Her daughters, lovingly fatigued by what was clearly a habit, quickly dressed and headed to the boat while she was among the last to arrive, telling her new friends about her most recent travels to Scotland, about how moved she was when she was in America and visited Arlington Cemetery.
The American woman was enthralled. She had stories to tell of her own, of travels from her youth and of her daughter’s academic achievements. Stories of her work with children and her best friend’s philanthropic initiatives, but a stronger inclination took over her.
“How often do you travel?” The American woman asked.
“As much as I can,” the Irish woman replied as the boat began to start towards the bay, disturbing the calm waters with movement. “I don’t think I’ll be able to really say I’ve lived unless I’ve done everything that interests me.” The American didn’t know what to say, having never yearned for travel until her daughters planned this trip. “After 73 years of age I want to keep finding things that surprise me.”
The American was taken with this idea. She was comfortable admitting that she feared that which she didn’t know, and yet she found herself enjoying her trip. The American looked out over the ocean. She had always said there was no competing with the shores of her home, of the beach she lived on as a child, but even she had to admit she had never seen waters so intensely blue, so clear and vibrant. She had lived on the Atlantic her whole life, and yet here it was unrecognizable. She grew up along the beaches of Jersey, raised her children on the Long Island Sound. The waves of her childhood were turbulent and seething, heaving against the rocks and beating down against the sand. The voice of her mother echoes in her mind every time she feels a salty breeze against her skin: The ocean is not your friend.
The woman wondered if she was robbing her children of something by raising them on the tranquil waters of the Sound, where the joining of freshwater to salt soothed the ocean. In her childhood she took her chances, becoming a strong swimmer out of necessity, but she’d brave the waves if it meant feeling the sting of the freezing water against her skin, being engulfed by something so vast and alive.
Dingle’s Atlantic was commanding. It was striking and composed and yet inviting. People had lived on these waters, lived with these waters as a friend and foe for centuries. She wondered if she might find the same fulfillment in these waters as she had in her childhood, if she traveled somewhere else how different it might be.
The boat picked up speed. It was early enough that the world seemed to just be waking up. Across the bay the sun’s glow broke through the clouds in strong beams of light over the ocean. It was a bit of a trek to the first stop, but the jolly group kept each other busy.
As they neared the first cove the vibrant blues were shrouded in shadows as the sun was covered by the height of the cliffs, the bright hues turned tenebrous in the absence of light, and a reverent hush fell over the group.
They had stood on cliffs before, had a working knowledge of how they were formed—tectonic shifting from ages ago, weathering and erosion over time—but the view from the boat was imposing.
Overwhelmed by the size and the shapes, the variations in color and material, the group was silent in their reverence, the song of seagulls and lapse of the water against the boat a gentle accompaniment.
No one spoke, but they experienced it together; the knowledge that such beauty exists in the world, the discomfort in knowing that something so magnanimous can stand so still, so peaceful. The girl who had nearly toppled from the boat to take pictures of the lone dolphin fin in the bay left her phone in her hand, and didn’t raise it. No screen could convey the giants standing in front of them, the reverence that hung in the air. These rocks had been here long before them, and would endure long after they were gone. They stared up at every groove and jagged edge, hanging on to the natural beauty for as long as possible, knowing their time to view it was fleeting.
The Irish woman turned to the American and leaned in close to share a look. Shoulders layered in jackets shifted against shoulders, sharing silent contemplation as the boat swayed in the soft wake of the cove.
