I grew up a pirate, in the puritanical sense of the word.

A pilgrim pirate. I grew up an oxymoron. Massachusetts; too much oxy, too many morons. I am from the land in between seas, a place singularly replicable across the globe. Pick any harbor and I am home. My hair is red, I have the last name of a crustacean, and I feel completely myself in the water. I swam competitively through college. I grew up inside a contradiction. I swashbuckle back and forth.

I am from the dunes of the Cape, the first glance across the Atlantic. I come from a long line of Newfoundlander lighthouse keepers who trickled on over from Ireland. Another great-great-great and so on… grandmother came to Plymouth on the second ship after the Mayflower. If you need to point fingers at who started the fire… Well it wasn’t me, but I have reaped all the benefits of said historical flame, nonetheless. I grew up in between dual states of repression, my roots both Puritan and Irish-Catholic. I come from the land of changing seasons and consequential pragmatism. 

Though, none of that has ever mattered because I am entirely of the sea. Born on the fringes between wet and dry, my identity was forever transformed.A peripheral alien on this strange, blue planet. 

The ocean is my home and I feel that deeply within my pores. It’s a feeling stronger than national allegiance, statehood, or city pride. Do not confuse me for someone who willingly ships up to Boston. I am at the whims of the water and I consider myself one of its stewards. Marine life, feeling more like neighbors than anything. Comrades in sea salt. I have never lived my life torn between this or that. Human or animal. Land or water. High or low tide. Quite the opposite, I feel at home inside contradiction, places where the colors meld together. Like paint, I feel lyrical, fluid, and ever-flowing.

Walking lightly and forward is difficult for me, but swimming is resolute. When I think of paths forward, I think in terms of water. I am from the in-between and as a result, everything I am is in-between. I exist on the fringes, too. Growing up, I could see the cold Atlantic from my front door, always calling me to venture beyond that ever-present horizon line…and I would.

I have.

I do. 

I have always kept a weather eye on the horizon because just on the other side, was either home or adventure -- always. 

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No matter where we come from, I think a lot of people feel in-between, too.

I see the subtext within all contexts because I grew up inside another contradiction of Massachusetts, for better and for worse. There’s a line in American Fiction (2023) that I wholeheartedly resonate with in the subtext of my own heritage: “Like Brahmin white or Southie white?”

I am from both places; I embody both personas. Brahmin, referring to the caste system and Boston Brahmin meaning the New England elite with accents, Harvard educations, Anglican principles, and British customs.

Southie meaning South Boston, of the Winter Hill Gang, the busing crisis, substance abuse, green tea shots, shamrock tattoos, unmatched humor, union-built, and union-strong. Both sides of my family have roots in both camps, but largely -- I get my Brahminess from my mum, and my Southieness from my fathah. 

Liberal arts and puritanical principles, intellectual quickness and repressed Catholicism, privileged blue and ridiculous red. Congregating, at both academic seminars and Irish wakes. I existed between astral planes. I have been on the hunt for my own good will across all social strata, with enough street smarts to outsmart my booksmarts, and vice versa -- all equating to one person… me. Both frighteningly cold and warm like the crackling wick of a flame. Kind to a fault and at the same time, a complete asshole. 

Well-educated in all fields, a student of Harvard professors and Boston gangsters alike -- knowledgeable about everything and everywhere. Most likely as an excuse to shy away from understanding myself — the ultimate plight of the New Englander.  

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These are my people. 

I am split right down the middle, but I never belonged to either side of this Quaker coin because the sea always came first. Though, it never belonged to me. Quite the opposite, I belong to the ocean. Turning never into an endless forever. I would trade a medium, hot regulah with eighteen sugahs from Dunkin’ for a sandy bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips any day. Lobster and oysters. Sharks and whales. Sandcastles and sea glass. I belong to the people whose hunger lives on a horizon line. 

Coastal culture, port culture is uniquely transferable. The people who exist where water and land meet are a specific kind of people. They swashbuckle, they swear, they are hearty deviants. They run rampant on the wings of waves and flagrant sexual innuendo. They are salty bohemians, accepting of every walk of life that arrives into port. Morals are looser, art is better, and egos never overpower the lady ultimately in charge of us all. In my case, the North Atlantic. Nothing is permanent. Everything is ever-flowing. 

My parents love the water, so they are to thank for changing my soul’s trajectory. Hook, line, and sinker. I didn’t stand a chance. My life was predestined for me; I was born to the tune of yacht rock. Forgive me Poseidon, for I have a confession. My life, my love, and my lady is the sea. I am the product of this place and I am no better than anyone else.

I have unfurled into a whole person, ever-flowing, too — just like the water I love so much. My foundation remains solid because where I am from will never change. I am an ocean and its waters live within me. 

This — this is where I am from. The salty in-between.