Essays from McGee, the Final Chapter: The Sea Witch Defined

DISCLAIMER: Contains adult language.

“What is a sea witch?” This is a question I am often asked, and one that I want to answer honestly, “Fucked if I know.” Instead, I stumble through some suitably sounding witchy explanation, a little different every time. In my mind, I hear Terry Pratchett’s Granny Aching, “It ain’t what a horse looks like, but it’s what a horse be,” and I want to adapt that somehow, in an effort to answer this frustrating question. Obviously, I’m not being asked about the Uffington Horse carving in England’s chalk country but the spirit of that statement seems somehow perfect for the actual question to hand.

I Google it. I read books about it. And I find that, generally speaking, no two sources can fully agree on what, exactly, a sea witch is. The latest book that I bought, unread, for the shop, (title and author redacted to protect the guilty) even went so far as to say that a sea witch absolutely believes in a god and goddess and further implied that one must be Wiccan before one could be a sea witch. To lightly paraphrase Dorothy Parker, I now have an entire stock of books that should not be taken lightly. They should be thrown with great force.

I am not, however, a gate keeper of knowledge. I put them out on the floor, away from the other books to avoid any psychic contamination, and when someone does pick it up in interest, we have a capital C conversation about it. Happily, I have yet to sell one.

So, what, exactly is a sea witch? Seriously. Fucked if I know. I only know that I am one. That there are many more out there. That each of us has our own unique connection to the world’s oceans. Me to my shingle and mud beaches and coastal forests, marshes and mud flats. Others to their mermaid beaches, white sands and conch shells, dolphins and dewgongs.

I struggle to get behind a lot of what is written. If mermaids do exist, they are certainly not shiny, happy women with sparkling tails and perfect tits. Rather, they’d be manatee or dewgong like, more selkie than Ariel. And if mermaids do exist, they’re creatures of the fae realm and therefore to be avoided at all costs. I grew up with the real Brothers Grimm tales, the ones that give adults nightmares, but never seem to phase a curious child. I grew up with a wispy memory of a voice, “Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren’t go a huntin’ for fear of little men.” Fairies and elves, Merfolk and Sirens, all to be avoided at all costs.

I know sea witches who are Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, and Muslim. I know sea witches who are in covens and who are solitary, who are Wiccan, who are theists, and who are not. I know sea witches who also, when pressed, can only shrug and say, “Fucked if I know.”

It is a label I wear slightly uncomfortably in the name of authenticity, but one that I know well and firmly applies. It’s in the feeling of real magic – not the glingle glingle, Harry Potter, Gandalf magic. It’s in knowing that the voice in your heart is the voice of the ocean, the island, the marsh, the coastal forest. It’s in seeing the true miracle of the tides, harnessing the power of the ocean if only for a moment, to charge your drained battery, to take away your grief and anger. It’s in the way that I float, like an otter, and take sea naps when I do. When the waters begin to get dangerous, the ocean splashes me awake and then punishes me for being an idiot by making me swim against currents – giving me little pushes along the way.

It's in the communion between us, the ocean and I, it being my therapist, my guide, my calling. It’s magic stripped of pretense, devoid of sigils and symbols, witchy garments and jewels. It is raw. It is wild. It is untamable and unpredictable – and that is especially dangerous to those who don’t listen to what the ocean is telling them.

It’s in the gifts that it leaves. It’s in the acknowledgement that the ocean is. No god or goddess needed for me. I don’t cloak the ocean in manmade images of saints or deities. Even gendering the ocean seems futile. Yes, it is the life breath and womb of the world, but it is also a destroyer and bringer of death.

It’s for these reasons that it’s not hard to understand why mariners are so superstitious and delirious with religion, deathly afraid of the ocean and its witches, and hopelessly in love with both at once, too.  Take, for instance, the loss of the Scandie Rose. When I learned of the Scandie Rose, it was nearly, frustratingly, storybook perfect.  As the ships and their sailors dredge the sea of the ocean’s children, in droves, it is only to be expected that the ocean will take what is due in return and leave one or two alive to tell the tale as warning.  As I listened to the fleet’s lament over her loss, I wondered… Did her captain and crew see a face in its embrace as they were pulled under  – a face to let them know that they were the price paid for the rest of the fleet?  Did the ocean remind them, then, that there is no God, only it – and they must remember that it will exact its payment when what is due is not given to over to it?  What fools we are to think that silver or gold or jewels would placate the world’s life-giver and taker.  The ocean has it all and so much more – what it takes is not from desire for riches or greed, but to restore balance.  There must be balance.

Understanding this is, to my mind, the true hallmark of a sea witch. It is on us to listen, truly listen. To see every little miracle that we pass off as somehow mundane. To understand that there must be balance. If you accept gifts, you must also give something in return. If you ravage the sea of its gifts, be prepared to give everything in payment.

Sea witches were feared throughout history – bringers of storms, wreckers of ships, hexers of sailor and sea captain. But they were truly feared because in the end, they were independent women who bowed to only one thing, and it was not a man. Connections with elementals are chaotic, frightening, and more powerful than any connection with god or man. The elements exist – no belief needed, and these women knew this. They also knew how to spook a sailor (it’s frightfully easy, really), as well as how to make them feel protected.

We can walk through downpours and emerge only slightly damp. We stand outside in hurricanes and feel a surge of power that drives us. We float like otters and immerse ourselves in the strange and beautiful water world, drowning out the sounds of the world of men, drawing down and in the power of the surf, the warmth of the sun, the firmness of the seabed or “land” beneath us, and being caressed by the sea breeze. A sea witch carries each elemental with her, but understands in her bones that it’s the water, the ocean, the world womb, and eternal tomb that holds sway over all other elements.

Perhaps then, the best answer to that interminable question is simply this: A sea witch isn’t what a witch looks like. It’s what a witch be.