by Sean McGowan
The first time I saw the ocean, I was with my Uncle Tom. It is a memory charged with ambivalence—Weekapaug’s slice of the Atlantic appeared to me both beautiful and unnerving, as profound as it was poignant. Its temperature cold, its currents unforgiving, the plane seemed to beckon as much as it warned.
My uncle had traversed the ebbs and tides of life masterfully. He had charted his own path, savoring its clearest days and weathering its roughest storms. A deft navigator, my uncle conquered the mightiest waves life had offered, and I sought his guidance many times in my own voyage.
A stern captain, his wisdom was always a product of his unending experience, his extraordinary personality, and his constant love. I would spend countless hours discussing my next course of action with him, and he always knew what his next move would be, how to adjust his sails to the wind and the stars. He knew his path well, and would often guide me down it.
I think my uncle enjoyed imparting his knowledge on me, and I think he was even happier when I heeded it (which I did, many times). But I only know for certain what his reaction was when I opted for a different choice, when I wanted to explore a route of my own.
It was then he would fold up the map that he had forged on his own, hand me the sails, and smile.
Thomas E. McGowan 
Leave a comment