I had a wonderful, relaxing visit to the ocean yesterday – one of dozens, probably hundreds, I have taken over my lifetime. It never gets old, and I have come to realize that this love for the ocean is deeply rooted in my blood and spirit, all due to my father. From as far back as I can remember, visits to the ocean were special. We would sometimes go for a day, but once in a while for a week when I was really young. Since my mother hated the beach, the ocean, and all things associated, the whole experience was my father’s. He was a strong swimmer, and would haul us into the freezing Atlantic to jump the waves until we were all numb. We would carry our little pails out to the tide pools, uncovering rocks and picking up the little green crabs lurking underneath. Once our pails were full, we’d wade into the water and release them all back into the sea. My father loved deep sea fishing, and made friends with some of the locals at Rye Harbor. I can remember him coming home from a day there, our old station wagon full to the brim, and stinking to high heaven with shrimp, lobsters, clams and fish. He would fill the vegetable bin in the refrigerator with cornmeal, much to my mother’s chagrin, and dump all the clams in there to keep them fresh. We would open the fridge and be entertained by all the “clam bubbles” popping out of the cornmeal. Once they were ready to eat, we had our mugs of clam broth, and a bowl of drawn butter, and off we would go – shucking as many as possible. Part of the ritual was drinking the clam broth at the end of the meal . This drink was a fishy smelling broth with a lot of sand in it. I don’t know what the attraction was there, but we always drank it! I could dismantle a lobster before I could peel an orange. My father taught us all the ins and outs of getting every last morsel out of the shells, and wasting nothing. I can remember us sitting around at the end of the meal sucking on lobster legs in case anything was forgotten. All of this happened a very long time ago. My father has been gone almost 20 years, and it was a good 20 years before that when most of these events took place. But I can still remember him in his olive green plaid bathing suit – dashing into the cold Atlantic, calling us to join him. Every time I visit the ocean, he is still there. Miss you Dad.