Travel, Ocean, Sand

We all have a country of origin, the home port from where we make our berth, But for some, the spirit answers a different call, seems to hail from a different lot than the provincial rest— A call heard in the conch shell, father Neptune or Poseidon—or Mother Ocean if you will, who's body is clothed on all sides by sandy shores, but true travellers, like her babes, embrace her bare, Adrift in any single constriction, or landmass, they dream of her carrying currents and laughing sprays, dream to be stolen away to the better side of the world, the other side of the world—any place where the traveller is not, but by the back of mother Ocean could possibly be.