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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