There is some profound beauty by the sea—a kind of connection to that which is vast, beyond, and unknown. This feeling is heightened by the stillness of the ocean, punctuated only occasionally by chaotic waves that seem to form as a large, threatening mass but gently dissolve into the shore with little impact. It’s still amazing to consider that the ocean’s mass is greater than the land we live on.
While everyone is rightfully drawn to water bodies like this—fascinated by their scale, rhythm, and shimmer—I think that for highly transcendental beings like myself (not kidding), there’s a depth to it that simply throws me into awe. It’s a kind of awe that calls not only for reverence of nature but reverence of its maker, too.
Today, as I walked along Coronado Beach in San Diego, I couldn’t help but observe how different people—representing all the beautiful diversity of our human family—engaged with the sea. Some, especially young men, were playing volleyball or pickleball, working off energy, maybe even the testosterone racing through their bodies. Children were, as always, everywhere—crying, running, swimming, waiting for the tides to chase them. Mothers and fathers watched from a distance, some in a reflective mood, overseeing their children with a sense of deep satisfaction. I imagined them thinking, “It is a good life.”
And while all of this happens—and rightfully so—I wonder: is there enough space for contemplation? For wonder? For conversations about how nature can offer not just escape, but maybe insight into our condition—our joys and our suffering?
As I watched the waves build and disappear, I couldn’t help but reflect on how the ocean itself might offer a frame for understanding creation—and perhaps even the Creator. I was reminded of the old seafarers’ hymn:
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea.
And another:
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea,
Or demons, or men, or whatever it be,
No water can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and sky.
These are just a few of the hymns that came to mind—verses that give language to the awe and smallness one feels by the sea.
But one that truly stood out for me today was from Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. After being stranded and forced into solitude, Crusoe begins to enter a transcendental phase—asking questions I found myself pondering too:
“What is this earth and sea of which I have seen so much? Whence is it produced? And what am I and all the other creatures, wild and tame, human and brutal? Whence are we? Surely we are all made by some secret power, who formed the earth and sea, the air and sky; and who is that? Then it followed most naturally—it is God that has made it all… And if nothing happens without His knowledge, He knows that I am here… and has appointed all this to befall me.”
That moment of clarity in Defoe’s novel mirrored my own today.
Nature—and today, the ocean—was not just a pathway to feeling happy or to escaping the present moment. It was a sacred entryway. A reminder of the perfection and mystery of the universe. A call to remain hopeful, knowing that my current state, just like the wandering seagulls above me, is not just random, but perhaps a testament to the wonders and power of God.
He, like the ocean, may feel infinite and beyond reach. But perhaps His presence is made audible in the children’s shrieks, the waves slapping against each other, the seagulls squawk ,or even visually in the smiles on people’s faces and the vast ocean horizon that pulls us all forward and it touching the sun, which on this continent is just setting, yet rises in another.
Introduction 
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