The Atlantic Ocean always beckons me. It’s the ocean we visited on summer vacations as kids when my father piled us into the Oldsmobile for a drive across Pennsylvania to the shore. Throughout my life, a trip to the beach has meant plunging into the waves that roll into New Jersey, Delaware, New England, New York City and elsewhere along the East Coast. Until recently, I worked in a newsroom that offered sweeping views of New York Bay, where the Hudson empties into the Atlantic.
Thus it thrills me to visit the Atlantic from Africa, where my girlfriend and I swam recently at the beaches off Cape Town and drove along the road that skirts Chapman’s Peak, a mountain that ascends from the ocean to the city’s southwest. The 5.5-mile drive twists and tucks into the rise, suspended above sheer drops that tumble into the sea while the mountains tower above you.
Every mile or so we stopped the car and stepped out to gaze out at the blue expanse, which glistened in the sun. I pictured New York, roughly 7,900 miles away, and imagined what might be happening there and what it might be like to see all the way to the other side. Next time I’m at the beach in New York, I will imagine what might be happening here.