Barnacles

I grew up going to the Jersey Shore, in a small town a mile long. The beaches weren’t as crowded as the ones to the North and South, and I loved to wander along the ocean’s edge for hours. Up from where I’d enter the beach were a series of jetties, and I always gravitated in their direction.

Built to protect the shoreline and the houses on the beach, probably after a major storm many years ago, they begin on the beach, with wooden pilings and wall embedded in the sand, leading to massive boulders leading into the ocean. The jetties provided constant entertainment. Even when the surf was calm, the rocks could insight an entertaining splash, but, during storms, they caused waves to explode, covering me with water and foam.

I liked to sit on one of the pilings and watch the sea and rocks meet. No matter how picturesque the wave, the rocks always brought its dance to an end. Although I couldn’t see it, nor would I be around when it finally happened, I knew the waves would eventually win the battle, turning the rock to sand.

On the rocks were white barnacles. They were tiny, in comparison to their hosts, but I knew not to be fooled by their size. I had scars on my hands and feet to remind me. I have no idea what role the barnacles serve in nature’s drama, but they appear without invitation on anything that remains in the water for a significant period of time. I doubt they have a brain, but I marvel at how smart they are. They know the rocks will keep them safe, and they hold tight. No matter how tumultuous the sea, they’re safe . . . as long as they’re attached to the rocks.

At the time, I didn’t know the valuable lesson they were teaching. Looking out, I couldn’t see the storms beyond the horizon of my life. At that age, I’m sure I saw myself as a rock able to bring down the mightiest wave, but now I know better. Now I realize I’m more like a barnacle, and I can only hope I have the sense to cling to a rock, one that will protect and get me through whatever storm arises.