There were three stops on our trip today: the rope bridge, Giant’s Causeway, and Port Stuart. 
The rope bridge was not something that my father would ever desire to experience, although it truly was not as bad as I was anticipating. It held out over a crevice in the rocks above crystal clear blue waters, there was even a seal on a rock! Once across, you were atop a large rock-islet of sorts, covered in lush green, green grass. I climbed down to a little ledge overlooking the water to lean back into a wall of flowers and watch the waves. Needless to say, I could have stayed there forever and been perfectly content.
Next up was Giant’s Causeway. Legend has it that this world wonder (comprised of hundreds of thousands of rocks in the shape of almost perfect pentagons) came about when two giant brothers fought, ending in one brother smashing the Earth with his fist. Others claim that it is, more rationally, caused by some freak volcanic accident. Personally, I think the Giant story is both more rational and closer to the truth. :)
At Giant’s Causeway, I made my way down over the slip-slidy rocks to a thin stretch of pentagons extending into the water. There, I swirled my fingers around in small tidepools of creatures like living shells and these funny little red bush looking fellows that suck your fingers lightly when you poke them. Having satisfied myself with these pools, I stepped out onto the farthest edge to watch the water. The ocean has, for all my life as I have known it, been my favorite sight, smell, taste, feel, and sound. In it, I feel all of God. In it, parts of myself and parts of Him make sense to me. So I stood there, with the clean, cold foamy crests crashing about my ankles and knees and the salty mist tingling my skin and talked to Jesus. A good long talk about life and all the things that I’ve done wrong and all the ways that I love Him. And I made promises. Oaths of love and commitment and dedication to whatever plans are in store for me that I am not yet aware of or comfortable with. It was a beautiful hour.
Finally, we stopped by Port Rush to be stupid Americans at their finest. Although the locals were taking dips in wetsuits, we jumped on in the loch wearing athletic shorts and tank tops. For five minutes. Everything was right about it. Everything was wrong about it.
Two more days here in Northern Ireland. Two more days to learn and grow and be stretched in very good, very Irish ways.
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