Small before the sky, vast before the sea

halie selsor

I don’t remember the drive itself: 710 miles in the cramped backseat of the packed-full minivan spent mostly with eyes screwed shut in uncomfortable sleep. The light had changed as we drew closer, the trees grew sparse and bowed with salt, and the air that rushed through the open car windows turned heavy, humid, and unfamiliar. The scent came quickly—sharp, clean, and wild—the kind of air that filled my lungs and sat heavy behind my ribs in a way that the crop-dusted wind of the American Midwest never had before. Through the open window, I felt the wind slap against my face, the kind of quick breeze that carried stories from far away on its tail, whispering them into my ears like a secret only we shared.

“Today’s top forty hits on Sunny 105.7!” The voice of the radio announcer blared through the speakers, the sound of “Heat Waves” by Glass Animals crooning through the radio just beneath the excited chatter of my family.

 The exhilarated conversations and nearly-too-loud music faded behind the steady rhythm of tires on asphalt below me and the murmur of anticipation growing rapidly in my chest. I didn’t know what I expected to see, but I knew that whatever waited beyond that final bend would be something different—something vast and unexplored to my untraveled eyes.

The road lifted slightly, curved around a last cluster of palm trees and into the waiting parking lot. The horizon broke open before me. The Gulf of Mexico unfolded like a blanket in front of me—endless blue gray shimmering slightly beneath the overcast sky above. It was like staring into eternity. The line between water and sky was barely there, blurred and uncertain, as if the Earth had forgotten where it was supposed to end and the cosmos were set to begin. The first sound I noticed as we arrived wasn’t a crash, but a roar; it was steady, deep, alive—reverberating against my eardrums and echoing in my brain through the open car windows. The waves before me moved like a living creature, breathing in and out. I remember gripping the handle of the car door as if I needed something solid to ground me in the moment.

“Take it all in. Get out and stretch your legs!” my father urged us excitedly from the driver’s seat, his hands falling to the shifter as he threw the car into park.

I stepped out, the heat wrapping around me like a damp blanket despite the overcast skies, drawing sweat to my brow almost instantly. The humid air was thick enough to taste. I could smell salt and the lingering aroma of sunscreen that had settled into the sand and made itself a home, alongside something earthy—like fresh life and decay mixed, boxed, and wrapped in a beautiful bow. The gulls circled above, their shrill cries sharp and distant. For a long moment, I stood there, my sandalled feet glued to the concrete as I stared at the expanse of gray-blue lying in front of me. It wasn’t the striking turquoise I had imagined from postcards; it was heavier, deeper, moodier. Still, it was beautiful—beautiful because it was real.

Ambling down the boardwalk, the anticipation wound tighter in my chest. Each step toward the water made my heart pound faster in my chest. The sand appeared soft and white from a distance, but when I finally reached it, it was coarse and hot beneath my now-bare feet—almost too warm to bear. I laid down my shoes, wincing as I stepped into the gritty heat, but I didn’t stop.  The breeze tangled my hair, stung my face, and filled my ears with the sound of waves striking the shore. I watched the water stretch and pull, reaching out towards me, then drawing back like a breath.

When the first wave touched my toes, I let out a shrill laugh; it was colder than I had anticipated—a sudden, clean shock that sent goosebumps racing across my skin. The water rushed around my ankles and then retreated, pulling grains of drenched sand out from under my feet. It felt as though the Earth itself was moving beneath me; it was, in a way. I waded in further, letting the water climb to my knees and then my thighs until I was standing half-submerged, the waves swirling around my legs with rhythmic persistence. Each had its own voice—some soft, some fierce—and all of them seemed to say, You are here. You are small. You are alive.

For the first time, I let my gaze fall upon the horizon and allowed myself to wonder what lay beyond it. Somewhere far away, this same water touched other shores, other people, other lives. Perhaps somewhere in another country, a stranger was standing on their own beach at the exact same moment, looking out at the same vast expanse, thinking their own small thoughts about it. I tried to imagine what creatures were beneath me: fish, crabs in intricate shells, strange shifting things that had existed long before I was born and would continue to live long after. The ocean was endless, alive in a way I could never understand.

Standing there with the surf tugging at my legs, I contemplated how small I was—not in any way that frightened me, but in a way that felt strangely right. The ocean had been here for millions of years before I ever existed and would go on long after I was gone. My worries, my tiny daily struggles—all of it seemed to dissolve into the salty air as I exhaled. The creatures below would never ask my thoughts or opinions; the waves didn’t care who I was or what I wanted. They simply kept moving, steady and eternal. I remember thinking, “Maybe this is what peace feels like”: not the absence of chaos, no, but the acceptance that the world will go on, no matter what.

The longer I stood there, the more the sea began to feel like a mirror. I could barely make out my reflection trembling in the shallow water, distorted and fleeting as waves came and went. The surface reflected both the storm-gray sky above and the thoughts that had begun to stir within me. The ocean seemed to hold every contradiction: powerful yet gentle, ancient yet very much alive, terrifying albeit comforting. I realized then that I, too, was made up of contradictions—small, but capable of complex thought, fragile but resilient. I am nature, like the sea—only a mammal, after all—but we are both capable of so much.

I thought about how many people had stood right here before me, how many would take my place, feeling the same quiet awe. The shoreline must have held countless footsteps now eternally washed away, leaving no trace of the visitors who had graced her sands. Time felt different in that moment; it was wide and circular rather than straight and narrow. The ocean didn’t measure time in hours or years, but in tides—in the steady rhythm of coming and going. I began to see how the sea is both motion and memory—keeping nothing, but carrying everything.

Staring out at the overcast horizon, I imagined the Earth itself suspended in space, surrounded by vastness quite similar to the water that surged around me. It struck me quite suddenly that our planet, this blue sphere turning silently in an endless universe, is just another wave in a much greater sea. The thought was humbling, perhaps frightening; but it filled me with something akin to joy. I wasn’t just small; I was a part of something infinite.

Years later, when I think about that first day, the memories come back to me in fragments. The scent of salt, the taste of the air, the near-deafening sound of waves crashing and retreating. If I focus, I can still feel the wet sand giving way beneath my feet, the icy water circling my knees. That moment remains the clearest in my memory, not because of what I saw or what happened, but rather what was revealed: that sometimes, to understand yourself, you have to stand before something immeasurable.

The tide still pulls in. The tide infinitely pulls away. Somewhere, even now, waves are rolling over the same stretch of sand where I once stood. I like to think that every time the ocean breathes in and out, it carries with it a piece of every person who has ever stood before it—every laugh, every pondered question, every quiet realization. Mine is somewhere in there too, dissolved into the saltwater: a small part of something eternal.