The Oceans Do Not Call Poem by David Welch

Some people find sublime beauty
in its foaming white-caps and waves,
they look at it like a lover
who is so prone to misbehave.
They dream of riding the tall crests,
of marlin-fishing off a boat,
sitting on beaches soaking sun
until their exposed bodies roast.
They build their whole vacations 'round,
a flat, blue, and endless sea,
they may enjoy it, but I don't,
the oceans do not call to me.

First, everything tastes funny
from even drops of salt-water,
the detritus washing ashore
is rather ugly, and disturbs.
It's annoying to take a walk,
twisted ankles when sand shifts,
dare put any piece of food down
and seagulls will fly off with it.
If you're tired in the water
you can't rest of you may drowned,
and who loves the through of big sharks
grabbing hold and dragging down.

And if you're a sailor-type,
out there working on the waves,
should something break down or go wrong
it's not that easy to be saved.
They say there's romance about it,
but that's something I do not see,
storms that kill then featureless waves…
just doesn't sound so great to me.
Every day on a metal ship,
like living inside of a vault,
air that smells like rotting seaweed,
which everyone mistakes for salt.

I even have uncles who sail
along fair New England's shores,
a cousin worked at a sea park,
worked with whales and dolphins and more,
maybe I didn't get the gene,
I don't even like getting wet,
some said that I would outgrow that,
but that day has not come yet.
You can keep all your beach houses,
I have no need for them at all,
the sea, it does not speak to me,
and the oceans do not call.

The mountains though, they have me intrigued…