There is something elementally satisfying about my current commute, and this morning I realised what it is. It isn't the beautiful houses (Mosman) or views (Spit Bridge/Harbour Bridge) we go past; it isn't the crowded buses or traffic jams either. It's the water.
No, I'm not guzzling some funky, intelligent, over-hyped, green-hating plastic bottled über-water, but rather looking out over the harbour, Sydney's great appendix of the Pacific Ocean.
It's not the beaches that move me. Nor am I fascinated by the breaking waves. In fact that is just the sloppy, noisome edge of the real deal ... the Sea - mistress of ship Captains and mighty in her play and rage alike.
Playing in the surf is fun (I thoroughly recommend it) but it's rather like running to work - a more primitive existence, where we rely upon our body's strength to sustain us - and frankly as the world's ultimate tool makers it behoves us to take a more mature approach to something as dangerous and amazing as the Sea.
Like many things in life, it's my Dad's fault. As an aside I'm sure my son will have many things to lay at my feet too ... if you're just getting to grips with your own parents' imperfections then I suggest you look at something like the Search for Life course from Careforce Lifekeys.
But I digress. The reason it's my Dad's fault is that he exposed me at an impressionable age to the Sea via his yacht Dreamtime. I was around 13 when I first held the wheel of a large boat (41'6") and it was thrilling. In the rest of my teens I spent many a weekend racing with my Dad and his crew and thoroughly enjoyed most of it (except for the end of the day when we cleaned up).
I find that the Sea is the place where I feel most spiritual and closest to appreciating the sheer grandeur of my heavenly father's creation (I was going to say handiwork, but he spoke it into being ... hey! Maybe Bill Gates is right about the future of speech recognition after all?).