Was that Poseidon?

The sea called out to me, roaring and vibrating with all the might of its blue energy. I took my time traversing the shore; enjoying every bit of it, before I finally looked at the vastness of nature before.

The waves lashed out against cliffs, almost in sync with the tunes of a guitarist, clad in white, an imposing figure pitched against the blue infinity that lay before him.

Broad –shouldered, and sporting a wide-brimmed hat, he sat a few steps away from one of the several medium-sized cliffs that dotted the shore. The cliffs protected him, but the waves reached out to him anyway.

Armed with a pen and a small notebook, he commandeered the unruly splashes, and synced his notes with them.

He then watched the waves for a full minute before jotting down something in his book.

The musical dance continued.

He wrote while the waves danced; and in turn he swayed to its sounds.  

Although I was close enough to see the duet, I was nowhere near to hearing the extraordinary exchange of thoughts.

I say extraordinary because I saw something that I've seen in very few people in the world.

After what seemed like a long time, he put his pen down.

 He lay down the guitar and its pick. Crinkling his eyes, puckering his lips, he watched the sea in amusement.

The sea roared, indignant and confused.

Exhaling deeply, he smiled for the briefest moments before putting his head down. After a split-second of hesitation, he jerked his head up and looked at the sea with uninhibited love--the kind of love whose existence is not tied to reciprocation or dependence.  It exists, simply, for itself. It’s selfless and selfish at the same time, and it’s beautiful.

Overcome by unbridled exhilaration he looked longingly at the sea. The sort of exhilaration that momentarily appears fills the ever-present void to the rim and goes on to heal a person.

The sea seemed to calm down for the briefest moments to acknowledge, before roaring away, letting the musician soak in the feeling and rejoice.

All the while, I had been edging silently toward the musician, afraid of intruding him in his most private moment.

I stopped a few feet away, at which time he picked up his instrument and played a joyous piece.

It was, needless to say, brilliant and I was hopelessly rooted to the spot, even after the piece was done. 

Sensing my presence, he turned, tipped his hat, and departed.  Just like that, leaving me to rewind and go over the entire exchange to this day, every single day, almost three years since it happened.

Now that I think of it, was that Poseidon?