Reconnecting With the Sea in Brighton, England

This post originally appeared on CAPA World Blog in September 2015.

Back in America, where summer days stretch long and summer skies stretch wide, there is no sky wider than that over the Atlantic ocean in August, and there is no place I love more than the open edge of the earth where I can stare out across the sea.

This summer, not too long ago at all, on the sleepy shores of North Carolina, I sat on the sand and looked towards the horizon, dreaming about the fact that in less than a month, I would be on the other side of it. The sun glinted off the little peaks of waves for miles into the distance, and the wild ocean, like my future, seemed limitless.

Now, across the rainbow and with my feet firmly on the ground in a country that no longer feels imaginary, I still feel the tug of the ocean, whispering down the entrapped currents of the Thames.

Spoiled as I am by the Southern coastline, to which nothing compares, I knew that the beaches in England would not be the kind of beaches I'm used to — I'd heard they were colder and rockier, not as lazy, not as wide. Still, I had the hankering to stand once more on a shore and feel the familiar relief of all my earthly cares dropping away. I craved the release, the freedom, the wind in my hair and the taste of salt on my lips.

The stony shore of Brighton beach, England

Even if it was different, I wanted to see the ocean from the other side.

On an unseasonably sunny day, I took a train away from the hustle and bustle of the city and traveled south amidst green pastures, watching clusters of red and white chimneys pass outside my window. Less than two hours outside London, I came to Brighton, a coastal town nicknamed "London-By-the-Sea."

I was surprised when I stepped out of the station — Brighton certainly was different than London, but it seemed just as urban, and it was definitely no small beach town. Like London, it was full of frantic traffic and people and culture, right up to the cobbled strand of shore, where it became something with a completely new flavor.

Stepping through the tunnel that led from the busy streets onto the beach beneath was like crossing a barrier between countries. Above was the city, brimming with restaurants and crowds and buildings old and new; below was the seashore, dotted with large rocks and multicolored bohemian shops, people strolling and people seagazing, live music and picnic tables and sidewalks encrusted with small stones in the shape of suns. In the distance was a long pier silhouetted against the shape of carnival rides, and above my head a straight, industrial beam pierced the sky — one day soon it will support the tallest sightseeing ride in England.

Shops and cafes on Brighton beach

This small strip of land between city and sea was at once beachy and urban, familiar and foreign, industrial and natural. It felt a little like the boardwalk, and a little like New York City, and a bit like a town of fine artistry in France — it was all of these things, and yet it was none of them. It was like nowhere I had ever been before.

With the fusion of colors and culture of Brighton at my back, I stood with my eyes once more towards the horizon and felt the familiar lap of cool water on my feet. It was funny — here I was on the other side of the ocean, in a coastal city completely different from any beach town in America, on a rocky shore nothing like the fine-sanded east coast, staring across the English Channel towards Belgium or France instead of across the Atlantic towards Spain or Africa.

But out in the distance, where the water shimmered with a thousand sparkles under the mid-afternoon sun, where seagulls rose and fell on the salty wind and where the sea met the sky, it didn’t feel very different at all. And looking out on an ocean that stretched from Maine to North Carolina to Britain and places far beyond, ever-constant, I felt a tie to everywhere, and I felt home once more.