As a kid, I grew up in the inner city of East Boston, at Jeffries Point, the neighborhood closest to the Boston Harbor. We lived at the water’s edge. In summer, we swam, jumped off pilings, floated on old inner tubes, and let the harbor entertain us. We even played softball with the Longshoremen from Pier #1 during their lunch breaks.

At least once a day, we’d set out to swim across the harbor to Boston. But we never made it. The harbor patrol always picked us up about halfway, muttering and shaking their heads, before unceremoniously dropping us off right back where we started.

We didn’t measure time by clocks in those days. We measured it by tides, by fog, by which fish were running, and by the way the light reflected off the water.

Even now, living near the ocean in Newbury, I find myself drawn back to that same rhythm. It’s as if saltwater got into my blood early and never left. The sea still tells time in the only way that ever really made sense to me.

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