The Small Vagabond and Her Traverses

The waters of two oceans meet in Morocco. The warm waters of the Mediterranean rush into the cold expanse of the Atlantic to create the bluest ocean. The blue of the ocean changes with the light, a weak Spanish blue at the brink of day and night and a brilliant teal at noon. The waves crash and cling to the sand or rocky shores without abandon, soon forced to withdraw and crash and try again.
I have always been drawn to the ocean. From the day I was born within walking distance to the Korea Strait, I have always believed that a pinch of the salt of the sea runs in my blood. Yet, my attachment to the ocean had not prepared me to the multitude of shorelines on my six hour drive in late February along the Moroccan coast from Essaouira to Rabat. Behind the tinted windows of the bus, I dreamt of asking the driver to halt and let me jump off, let me run across the small patch of grass besides the road and to the yellow, untouched sands. Let me crash into the blue ocean waters crashing onto the quiet shore. With my feet in the water, I would stare at the horizon until the blue of the water and the blue of the sky seemed to blend together.
The yellow sands were soon replaced with the rocky, elevated coastline, and all I could see of the ocean was the distant white foam of waves waiting to arrive to the shore. Whitewashed mosques and small cement homes with red roofs sat in the tall grass, and again, I wanted to ask the driver to stop on the two way road. I would run across the two way street and swerve around the donkey hauling a metal cart on the dirt shoulder of the road. The height from the ground to the water must be dizzying and terrifying, bordering divine.
The closer the bus was to Rabat, the bolder the ocean. The water was more violent and hurled itself against the rocky coast, hoping to be seen. White foam splayed onto the rocks and when the water rolled to the shore with such force, the edges of the wave was visible in a blink of the eye. Perhaps the ocean wanted to see the cities and the people who drank sometimes peppered their mint tea with tiny white flowers and the darkness of the medina alleys barely lit by a naked lightbulb at night.
But there is nothing for the ocean to see of the cities beyond the black rocks. If there was something to see, it would be the dreamers like me who would rather sit with the bluest waters of the ocean and never tire of the waves crashing on shore, the foam on my glasses, the salty air on my lips.