I grew up in the desert, so I am never able to go to the beach without being in complete awe. For twenty years now I have lived within a 20 minute drive of the beach, and each time I go I can’t believe how I’ve taken it for granted. The waves never stop. I go about my week, or maybe two, before I go back and the waves have never stopped.
I like a fairly deserted weekday beach, with some fog. I like a beach that requires fleece. Tropical sunburn bikini beaches are just for wimps. If I had the opportunity to hang out in Maui I would, but I really like the Marin beaches just fine. Body surfing in San Diego is fun but if your feet don’t get a bit numb, it just isn’t the same.
I collect sand dollars and sea glass, throw sticks for the dog, find weird dead or rusted things at low tide. Mostly I appreciate that it’s always there. All that churning salt water and briny wind is cleansing.
I found myself drawn to the beach the morning of 9/11. Just sat on a log and watched the ocean do its thing. Last December I took my dog to the beach threw sticks and a found ball for most of an hour, then sat on the log while I waited to hear the outcome of my son’s arraignment in Seattle. I let the beach remind me that I’m not in control.
The waves never stop. The hiss and roar have been continual, since before any of us and will keep rolling long after us. Oblivious of us. When we are gone the sand dollars and sea glass will just pile up.
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