When I tell people I once risked a solid case of scurvy and significant social embarrassment for a story, they usually assume it had something to do with my historical research on whaling communities. You know, holed up in a creaky attic, poring over dusty ledgers, and maybe accidentally munching on hardtack for “authenticity.” But no, the weirdest thing I’ve ever done for a story didn’t involve musty archives or maritime lore. It happened on a small, windswept Nantucket beach—the kind of place guidebooks call “rugged and charming” when they really mean “desolate and borderline spooky.”

But let me back up, because every objectively bizarre decision begins with good intentions. Or, in this case, what I thought was a good idea and some ill-advised confidence fueled by too many rom-coms.

The Setup: Love Among the Seaweed

It started innocently enough, with an idea pitched during an editorial meeting: Could I write a piece about the intersection of romantic gestures and history? Something fun and practical—like how centuries-old customs could inspire modern relationships. (Spoilers: There’s a reason some traditions died out.) I said yes because it sounded charming. A little light research, a few witty comparisons, maybe some winking jokes about your Tinder profile needing the same kind of care as a Nantucket whaling ship pre-expedition. Cute, right?

But then, while flipping through an old volume of maritime diaries, I read about seaweed letters. As in, sailors who dried seaweed and pressed it into decorative “bouquets,” sometimes spelling out poetic lines or initials—something to slip into a love letter, or maybe leave as a secret gift. It was inventive and kind of romantic in an environmental, pre-industrial way. And I thought, What better way to understand this quirky, long-forgotten custom than by recreating it firsthand? After all, readers love authenticity—or so I told myself.

The Adventure: Seaweed Stalking

Cue me, three days later, crawling across Nantucket’s shoreline at dawn. The plan was simple: Gather seaweed, dry it, and craft something vaguely resembling a romantic offering because #content. What the plan didn’t account for was how much the universe loves to humble someone who dares to tread so far out of their lane.

For starters, real seaweed isn’t the magical, woven tapestry you see in illustrations or vintage postcards. It’s slimy, gritty, and about as cooperative as a teenage lobster. I must’ve looked ridiculous kneeling in the dunes, ankle-deep in water, mumbling to myself while attempting to grab stray pieces before they washed out with the tide. Passersby gave me a wide berth, probably assuming I was summoning spirits or filming an indie horror movie.

And the smell. Good grief, the smell. No one warns you that freshly washed-up seaweed has a kind of pungent, briny funk you can’t shake. My shoes, my jacket, my very soul—it all reeked. But I pressed on, reminding myself this was part of my process. Writing requires commitment, I thought, balancing a pile of soggy greens on my arm like some kind of cursed floral arrangement. John Keats probably never had to deal with kelp juice up his sleeve, but hey, no one reads his work and calls him relatable.

The Aftermath: Seaweed in the Living Room—Romantic?

Back home, the real disaster began. Apparently, drying seaweed isn’t as simple as laying it out in the sun for a few hours like a stack of oversize tea leaves. It needs meticulous care, which I hadn’t planned for. My attempt resembled a crime scene rather than a loving gesture. Brownish-green strands were draped across every available surface, becoming brittle and faintly menacing as they hardened.

For days, I tried in vain to arrange my crinkly harvest into something remotely romantic. It wasn’t happening. My cats sniffed once and walked away in disgust; friends refused to visit out of concern for their noses. Meanwhile, my house smelled distinctly like the Titanic’s pantry by day three.

The realization finally dawned: This wasn’t going to work. My seaweed “bouquet” could have terrified an 1800s sailor, let alone wooed one. So I did the sensible thing—I admitted defeat, aired out my house, and wrote the story anyway. A quick pivot to “Why You Should Leave Obsolete Romantic Traditions in the Past” did the trick.

The Takeaways: (Never) How to Win Hearts with Seaweed

So, what did this weird, smelly misadventure teach me about modern romance? Plenty, actually.

  • Not every grand gesture is worth the hype. Whether it’s crafting a seaweed bouquet or writing a Shakespearean sonnet, the effort is commendable, but that doesn’t mean it’ll land the way you hope. Sometimes, the smallest gestures—like folding someone’s laundry or showing up with soup when they’re sick—communicate love more effectively than metaphorical kelp juice.

  • Embrace imperfection. Relationships (and seaweed arrangements) aren’t Instagram-perfect. They’re messy, complex, and occasionally weird. And that’s okay. The point isn’t perfection—it’s connection.

  • Know your strengths, and don’t force the rest. For me, heartfelt gestures don’t involve seaweed or even poetry; they look more like ferrying baked goods across the harbor or helping someone track down an obscure book. Figure out the ways you show care most naturally, and lean into those.

The Conclusion: Charm, Minus the Kelp

Would I recommend this kind of commitment to the theme? No. Did it yield a funny story and an oddly humbling experience? Absolutely. If nothing else, it reinforced my belief that love—and life—is less about sweeping displays and more about the quiet, meaningful gestures that don’t require seaweed or risking your reputation on a public beach.

So here’s my advice, whether you’re wooing someone or just looking to show a little love: Keep it thoughtful, stay true to yourself, and please—please—skip the kelp.