Galveston: Gift of the Gods

by Victor Viser

A preface: In the time I have left on this tiny planet, there will be no instance where I ever refer to the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America.  Not even a wild horde of vicious cartographers could drag me away to recognize it as such.  Thus, I will only be using the former to reference that vast ocean basin that has been so named for nearly 500 years and located just yonder over the Seawall.

I’m one lucky guy.  My wife and I live in a wonderful home on a small barrier island called Galveston, located in the (ahem) Gulf of Mexico, and I commute seven minutes to my work as a professor on another, even smaller, island called Pelican.  I’m actually surrounded by the sea, and pelicans, all day long.  Most Galvestonians are like me.  Whether born on the island or born elsewhere, we have made a conscious choice to stay or move here, to live here, and probably to die here.  There’s something in the air and water about Galveston that drives a common need we have to live in a coastal environment.  We are, at our core, thalassophiles.

Yes, it’s true; we’re all a bunch of thalassophiles.  Lovers of the sea that is, intimately connected to its breezes, its aromas, its rhythms, its sights.  When the leaves fall from the Island’s trees in winter, we’re heartened by the resounding chorus of crashing surf, its acoustics no longer impeded by thick foliage.  Summer tourists never get that – it’s a gift of the gods for those of us who (really) homestead here.  Indeed, thalassophiles get their moniker from the ancient Greek sea-divinity, Thalassa, the mythological goddess and spirit of the sea.  With her seaweed toga and crab-claw horns, she wasn’t much of a looker.  But, the human reverence for the seas in the ancient world made its way through the millennia to today, where we have even borrowed Thalassa’s nickname – Mare – in mapping the maria of the moon. Think Mare Tranquillitatis, the Sea of Tranquility.

Though I grew up as a toddler for a few years at the corner of 17th and Sealy, in the Trube Castle when once-upon-a-time it was converted into apartments, it wasn’t until our own kids headed off to college that the wife and I decided to move back here the year after Ike struck.  That’s right – after Ike.  As we searched for a house, hurricane debris was mountainous on Seawall Boulevard and one of the Flagship Hotel’s absurdly burlesque mermaids was still decapitated.  But, there was the sea.  She drew us in like a hummingbird to jasmine.  At the time, there was no work here for me – my clients were 100 minutes away (on a good day) in The Woodlands, Texas.  To us, though, that mere triviality was of no concern.  Once we came to Galveston that was it.  Rather than BOIs, we were BATs – Born Again Thalassophiles.  I commuted five days a week for exactly one year before getting my local business robust enough to stay put on the Island every day.  

However, Galvestonians are not unique in their love of coastal environs. According to the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, coastal land areas only account for 10% of the total land area in the contiguous states, but contain 40% of the country’s population.  When put on a global scale, 28% of our 8 billion fellow Earthlings (roughly 2.25 billion of us) live immediately adjacent to or near ocean shores.  It’s no wonder why the bidding for those Galveston beach-chair concessions is so competitive (wink wink, nudge nudge).

To be sure, Galveston’s economy is not very good for Galvestonians.  Well-paying non-service industry jobs are hard to come by, artificially high prices put home ownership out of the reach of young families (unfortunately including teachers and first responders), and no one moves to Galveston because it has a good government.  So, what is the draw that drives an intrepid few to take that one giant leap and escape the chaotic world on the continent, to find themselves on our Insula Tranquillitatis here in the Gulf of Mexico?     

There can be no mistaking that it is the inescapable presence of the sea and its shore that continually captures our hearts.  Indeed, think of our elation when Galvestonians are occasionally gifted by gods with “blue water” days.  But, Galveston is the sum of its parts, and those parts include much more than that Gulf that awes us.  Continentals (that’s what I call folks who live on the mainland) often tell me how unusual it is to be constantly greeted with smiles when passing strangers in the city.  And, the taking back of our beaches between Thanksgiving and Spring Break, when they are at their most cool and tranquil, is something of a reward for the friendship we extend to our tourists the remainder of the year.  

The air is much cleaner here, the artistic vibe and culture is invigorating (though we need much more live music), and we grow close to the neighbors on our blocks in a way continental suburbanites never do.  These are just some of the parts that in sum uniquely make Galveston an appealing place to live.  

However, the one thing that sets Galveston apart from the mainland is probably the most overlooked attribute of all.  It’s not in the cobbled historic avenues of the city, nor is it in the relative isolation we have from the chaotic world.  It’s not even on its beaches or in the sea.  The reason I find myself in love with Galveston day in and day out is, surprisingly, what happens above me at night when I tilt my neck up to the evening’s celestial show in the sky.  There, with no cover charge or admission fee, is the grand parade of stars that shine so very brightly here.  

Particularly on moonless nights, I will often park at the west end of the Seawall where, as I gaze patiently long enough, the breadth of the Milky Way illuminates the heavens.  And, who has not traveled out to the east end pocket parks to experience the nighttime storm skies on the distant Gulf horizon as they explode titanium white with Zeus’s lightning bolts?  The night sky of Galveston is the brother to its sister sea, and it’s a relationship our continental city friends sacrifice by living with so much damned light.

Thalassa, Zeus, Insula Tranquillitatis.  Heck, I guess the gods did know what they were doing when they put this beautiful little piece of sand here in the Gulf of Mexico.  Shhh.  Come to think of it, let’s keep the lights dimmed and not tell anyone else.