A gull flies overhead, arcs back toward the shore and lands. It stares off to the left.
A small white dog with brown spots pants over to a ceramic bowl, licking up water as if she’s found an oasis in the middle of the desert. She’d gone missing in our perception – not her’s – disappearing into wetland plants taller than she. Harmonized whistling from the top of the dunes by me and my new friend, Miranda, we thought was futile. However; just as Miranda headed down to tromp into the green in pursuit of the dog she’s had since they were both knee high to a grasshopper, out darted Poppy in a dead heat straight toward the shore fifty yards to our left. Now she sits between us, content, grooming herself.
My bum is currently a foot off the sand, supported by a blue swath of fabric which is itself supported by an aluminum frame. Aluminum is useful here on an island constantly bathed in salty, moist air. My feet are covered in sand, my army green pant legs are wet and sandy – I was surprised by the tide soon after I arrived. My well worn Chaco sandals almost washed out to sea as the tide continued its move inland.
It’s been lovely sharing nature with Miranda. All kinds of stories were recalled from my childhood. Memories of oil spills and tar-covered beaches, of being surrounded by cabbage head jellyfish bobbing in the water, of a friend swimming out to the second sandbar and into a school of eels, of myself swimming parallel to shore and into a school of grouper, fish everywhere flapping against the whole length of my body. There was the time I crawl-stoked into a Portugese man-of-war that I felt, but never saw, red streaks painting my right arm. I recall being grateful the tentacles didn’t slap my face instead.
I want to tell her everything: about the different beaks birds have specialized to what they eat, the seaweed, the sea anemones. I want to take her into the salt flats. I want to share the joy that I find here in my hometown, the one I was so eager to leave.
Another cloudy day, yet no rain. The temperature is perfect: not too hot, not too cold. Just right. No need to spoinl the present moment with oppressive thoughts of Texas summers.
I feel an itch on my left bum cheek and wonder if a sand flea has found me. I had forgotten about them – images of childhood post beach showers where all kinds of surprises fall out as you peel off your suit: amazing amounts of sand, shells, and sand fleas.
I feel at peace here. No need to worry about where I will be sleeping tonight, when repairs might start on Mom’s Ike ravaged house, or if she will be able to purchase a new one. No worries about whether Dave and I are meant to be friends or more. Just gratitude for what I have and for what I’m glad I don’t have. So often I forget to be thankful for all of the terrible things that could be happening that aren’t.
I used to have a travel alarm clock that had a setting that sounded like this. Sounds of nature to lull one into sleep. Yet I don’t feel sleepy.
If I took a little piece of the scene before me, it could be seen as a chaotic swirling and churning. I remember being knocked over by waves as a kid - my sister Sherry and I would sometimes for fun go farther than we could touch the ground. I can see Dad far away on the shoreline waving his arms for us to come back – I guess we were confident he would come to get us if we needed him. From here, fifty yards back, all the motion is contained, held by the shore, supported. It’s calm here. I feel my feet firmly on the sand. And I know that if I got up right now, walked into the ocean and started swimming perpendicular to shore, I’d make my way to the calmness beyond the wavebreak. It’s calm there. Floating on my back, eyes closed, I allow the ocean to hold me, to rock me while I listen to the chatter of my dolphin cousins.
Poppy’s up now. She wandered away, sniffing, and then turned and ran full speed back to us. Just because.
I am amazed at how fast the legs of the shorebirds move as they run across the sand, stop, peck, run some more. Now the whole flock flies straight up in concert to avoid the approaching tide and again settles on the sand.
My exposed right shoulder feels the recent visit of a skeeter and I notice a few have landed on my left arm. As I look at my arm, I notice that the hair is standing on end. The temperature must have dropped a few degrees and/or I am feeling the effects of sitting around in wet clothes.
I hear an ambulance in the distance. My bladder is full again. I scratch a bite on my neck and start feeling antsy. And itchy. And ready to go. Buh-bye, beach. I know you will be here waiting until the next time I decide to slow down, to notice, to be.
