The critical power of place

I've always had an uneasy relationship with water. My earliest memories of water are growing up by the side of Belfast Lough in Ireland. Here, I skimmed stones across the Lough with my brothers, shivered as I learned to swim, chased gulls and watched the big ships glide down from the harbour, on their way to other places. On the surfuce the water seemed safe and inviting. It sparkled on summer days. As children we splashed through the waves, the water raced over our toes, washing stones as shiny as a seal's back. I remember the sea at night with lights in the distance; the other side, across the water. As a child, I dreamed of rowing to the other side to see what was there. But on dull, winter days when the mist settled over the Lough we imagined the water as deep, mysterious and frightening. Ships were shadows in the fog, and their foghorns were familiar sounds of winter. They were going somewhere into the world beyond (May Lecky, 2008).