My grandsons have been beach boys since they were born. In the warm weather, as soon as we approach the boardwalk, they take off their socks and shoes for they realize the beach expects such changes. It also expects them to sift the sand through their fingers, discover an important seashell, and in the summer, visit the ocean and get wet. The ocean refuses to be ignored.
As beach boys, one of Ben and Jake’s first lessons is to learn to respect the ocean. It demands respect. Though it plays with them, runs up and gently touches their legs, splashes against their faces tenderly, they realize it has another side. Young beach boys learn this early in life. So they must always be at the ocean’s edge with an adult watching them. They must understand from an early age that the ocean doesn’t realize its own energy, and it sometimes can overpower an unsuspecting human being.
When both are on the beach, they are always discovering new treasures, like the seagulls soaring overhead, cawing to one another and dipping low over the beach as if to greet them. Or the foghorns, constant in the distance on a day when the fog rolls in from the ocean and blankets the shore. The ocean communicates with my grandsons, and they have learned to know its moods. On a stormy day it thunders against the jetties and sounds like a train rushing down the street toward us.
There is much to entertain Ben and Jake when they are here. Cars, hundreds of them, rush into the town at summertime with boats, bicycles, and beach chairs attached. Tourists pack the sidewalks. They are hurrying to escape. They are getting away from ticking clocks and schedules and jobs. The ocean will see to it that they forget what they have left behind. “Can we go fishing later?” Jake asks. His fishing poles are waiting in the shed. He watches the fishermen walk by, carrying their poles, the families carrying picnic baskets and blankets and beach chairs. They are laughing, happy. It is vacation time— when everybody looks good and feels good—when reality packs its belongings and heads out of town.
“Can we go to the beach, Ga Ga?” one asks after the other. They are already walking toward the boardwalk, as if being pulled in that direction.
In a world that changes from moment to moment, Ben and Jake can count on the beach always guarding the ocean—waiting for them—four blocks up.
Harriet May Savitz
Condo Without a View
The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Ocean view condo near the beach” read the brochure. I closed my eyes and visualized salty breezes, swaying palms, and warm sand between my toes. Our anniversary falls on March 16, and this year I wanted to celebrate it at the beach. When I informed my husband, Dan, of my idea, he groaned.
“I don’t want to spend our anniversary freezing at Myrtle Beach.”
“Oh, pooh. Myrtle Beach will be warm by March, and we’ll get the cheap rates. Think of those juicy shrimp dinners.”
We arrived at Myrtle Beach on a Saturday afternoon— the only occupants in the entire resort. Dan glared at me as we removed our luggage from the trunk. A cold rain stung our faces.
“Now take it easy, Dan. Let’s just get to our room and unpack. I’m sure the weather will warm up.”
“I hope so. There’s no way I’m sitting on the beach when it’s only forty-nine degrees.”
We unlocked the door to our condo and confirmed that our room had an ocean view, as promised. Only you needed a telescope to see it. We had no problem seeing the dumpster and the asphalt parking lot.
The next day Dan and I donned our bathing suits at my insistence and headed for the beach. We also wore our sweat suits since the weather was still a little chilly. The wooden boardwalk to the ocean resembled the Great Wall of China. It went on and on, over marshland and sand dunes, as we stumbled along its uneven boards, occasionally tripping over nails sticking up through the floor.
Finally, we arrived at the beach, where a brisk wind whistled through the sand dunes. I removed my sweat suit and made a feeble attempt to sunbathe.
“Are you crazy?” asked Dan. “You’re not going to get a tan. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
Five minutes of goose bumps and shivering convinced me that Dan was right. I put my sweat suit back on and suggested a short walk to warm us up. With our jackets tightly zipped and our hands stuffed into our pockets, we marched rapidly down the deserted beach. On the way back, we noticed the tide had risen and formed a shallow pool that now blocked our way. It was too cold to wade barefoot through it, but neither of us wanted to walk all the way around it. We were anxious to return to our warm condo.
“We can jump that little pool, Dan. It’s not that wide. Let’s give it a try.”
With my long legs, I sailed into the air and across the pool with no problem. I landed right on the edge of the water and barely wet my sneakers.
“It’s your turn, honey. Come on. You can do it.”
Pumping his arms, Dan got a running start and shot into the air like an arrow. First he went straight up. Then he came straight down. He landed with a big splash right in the middle of the pool, knee deep in icy water. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, and his teeth chattered, but he laughed just as loudly as I did at his misadventure. We retreated hastily to our condo before he froze completely.
The weather never improved during the week. We salvaged what we could of our vacation and anniversary celebration by visiting the malls and stuffing ourselves nightly with seafood.
“It could have been worse,” I told Dan on the way back to Oak Ridge.
“How?” he responded. “It rained most of the week, and the temperature never even reached fifty degrees!”
“It’s all a matter of perspective, Dan. Just think—we could have been hit by a hurricane.”
Judy DiGregorio
“We got to thinking—Florida has fish too,
and it’s a lot warmer.”
Reprinted by permission of Patrick Hardin. © 1998 Patrick Hardin.
Dolphins
Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.
Marie Curie
My granddaughter Margaret and I are sitting on the edge of our wharf, feet dangling, while we watch a smiling mammal toss a fish high over its head for the third time. The animal splashes and rolls, and before we know it, my previously bored grandchild and I are in the water, tossing a ball, splashing, and laughing—a lesson in making our own fun learned from a dolphin.
I am not surprised, because I have an idea that dolphins, like dogs, have a special kinship with humans. They manage to bridge a metaphysical gap between terra firma and their own mysterious environment, which makes the connection almost magical.
An hour later, Margaret and I are back on the wharf. The creak of the hammock’s chain lulls her to sleep while I watch the gray sheen of dorsal fins arcing through green water, remembering a day like this one when Margaret’s mother and aunt were little girls.
Loaded down with towels and drinks and floats, we had made our way down the oyster-shell drive, across the shimmering black ribbon of asphalt road, and onto the expanse of a beach that looks more like sugar than sand. We spread towels close to the gently breaking waves, weighing corners against the breeze with flip-flops and shells. A blue heron stood tall and gazed reverentially out over the water like a tourist enjoying his first glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico. I kept one eye on a magazine, the other on my girls splashing at the water’s edge.
The heron’s irritated squawk made me look over as he took off, his great wings pumping through soft air. An old man with a very large Confederate flag tattooed across his back walked past with a curt nod, sat in the heron’s vacated spot, and lit a cigarette. Almost immediately, a group of four or five teenaged boys appeared from the direction of the road. They had long hair, a loud radio, and intimidating attitudes. They looked at us as if we were poison. The old man shot them an equally unfriendly stare. One of the boys mumbled something as he looked our way, and they all laughed and snickered. The old man flinched, sending a flutter acr
oss the sagging battle flag, and glanced nervously at my children and me. The boys’ mutterings took on low tones, and with narrowed eyes, one of them turned the radio up. The old man took a deep drag, never taking his eyes off the boys, and pegged the rest of his cigarette into the white foam of a breaking wave.
It had taken only a few minutes to turn the atmosphere of that lovely beach ominous with human fear and distrust. The only ones unaware of it were my little girls, who played happily along the seam of a continent and a gulf. I was preparing to gather them, resisting and complaining, along with all of our paraphernalia, when my older daughter called out, “Look! Look at the dolphins!”
Several of them circled and rolled in the calmer water just beyond the sandbar. They made dolphin noises, which I had never heard before. It was as if they were trying to get our attention.
The old man walked over to my daughters. “Look at them fish,” he said. “I believe they’re talking to you girls.”
“Really?” said the children, and the old man smiled.
The boys turned the radio off and gathered near us at the shoreline now, pointing and smiling, children again themselves, enjoying just being boys.
They laughed with the girls, and answered with a polite “Yes, sir” when the old man asked, “Did you see that?”
Suddenly two of the dolphins shot up into the air, shining and sparkling, like silver rockets against the dazzling blue of our summer sky. We were so overcome at the sheer beauty and power of the spectacle that we all began to clap and cheer, brought together by the joy of nature.
When we left, I gave the boys and the old man our leftover drinks. The boys helped us pack up our things. As we trudged through the powdery sand toward the road, I could hear them talking to the old man.
“You ever see dolphins do that?”
“I seen it once on TV,” the old man said, “but never out here.”
“Man, that was something. Like they were trying to tell us something, you know?”
“Yeah, wonder what it was.”
“Heck if I know. Hey, mister, would you like another drink?”
Margaret P. Cunningham
“This is definitely not your typical beach.”
The Ocean’s Gift
It was her way when life got too complicated, confusing, and overwhelming: She headed for a day at the ocean. There, she usually found a sense of rejuvenation, if not relaxation. There, she found a sense of perspective, if not understanding. There, a sense of peace, if not hope.
Even though it was the middle of February, the day was one that Lady July would have envied. The vase of the sky held only the bright flower of the sun, and it smiled warmly upon her. She could feel it trying to melt her hurt and pain.
The ocean itself was in a raging mood. Huge, rolling waves, white with fury, constantly came to the soaked shore. They pounded out their beat endlessly. Watching them crest and seeing their spray filtered in the sunlight, it seemed that they, too, were shedding tears. As far as she could see up and down the shore and out to sea, it was the same nonstop battering, weeping, and upheaval. Not unlike how her soul was feeling.
Her prayer that day, as it had been for too long, was for a healing of the hurt, healing of her spirit. And yet, more tears came.
It was later in the day when a walk away from the beach and up a mountainous cliff gave her a different view. High above the shore, she could still see and hear the waves. They hadn’t changed what they were meant to do. They were still coming fast and furiously, wrenching all in their way, depositing the demise of their travels on the soul of the shore. From her vantage point, though, she could see beyond the wall of breakers. There, just behind the turmoil, lay the whole of the ocean, calm as a puddle, smooth as a newborn’s cheek, peaceful as a whispered promise.
And, as had happened before, she received a gift from the ocean. This gift washed over her and through her and filled her. Standing where she was and seeing the panoramic view helped her to hang on to the belief that if she could just ride out the waves in her soul, then what’s beyond them would bring calm, smoothness, and peace.
Their bounty would be endless. The gift was an ocean of hope.
JoAnn Clark
Turtle Dreams
The goal in life is living in agreement with nature.
Zeno
The old sea turtle slowly meandered her way up from the water and high onto the sand. It was almost dark, and I was the only one left on the beach. It was not unusual, on the southern Atlantic coast, to catch a glimpse of a sea turtle digging her nest and laying her eggs, but this one arrived late in the year. The hot sand baking in the sun, it was a perfect incubator, but soon the sea would start roiling from winter storms, and the sun was already sinking low to the south.
I was an eight-year-old dreamer, keeping my intent watch in the near dark. It was late enough; bedtime for me, but as usual, no one knew where I was. I was forbidden to go by myself on the beach at dusk, but nothing could tear me away from my quiet watch. I was about to take part in a miracle.
As I kept my watch on the beach, it became darker and the light grew dim, but I could still see the ancient creature waddle her way upon the shore. Every time she moved, I would creep closer. Trying desperately not to disturb her, I continued to steal forward, not wanting to miss a thing.
By the time the sea turtle began digging, I was very near. She seemed to dig awfully slow. Turtles on the move can move remarkably fast, but this cow was making slow progress. I crept nearer until I was nearly upon her. What was wrong? Then, I saw that the female sea turtle had only one usable back leg. As she dug, she made lopsided progress. I wondered what to do.
All of a sudden her eye moved, and I thought she looked right at me. I felt an incredible urge to help her. I reached beneath her, and I began to dig under her maimed leg. When the hole was nearly big enough to hold me, she stopped digging, and she began to drop her eggs. I quickly moved back to watch: one, two, three, four—each egg dropped rapidly, like little Ping-Pong balls, with soft, leathery shells. There must have been dozens. Tears came to her eyes and dropped onto the sand.
Not knowing that this was a natural part of the sea turtles’ birth cycle, I wondered, as a little girl, why she was crying. Was she hurting? Or was she crying because she knew that her babies would not make it home? Perhaps she knew of the people who would steal her eggs or the sea birds that would snatch her babies before they reached the sea. Perhaps it was a way that God provided, so that this little girl could connect through him, with her. When I saw her tears, it hurt my heart. I felt the tears seep from my eyes and drop to the sand, mingling with hers.
When she was finished laying her eggs, the old sea turtle began to fill the hole. I hastened to help her, and still she allowed my intrusion. Then she wandered back down the beach, into the sea, and she dove beneath the waves. I sat there awhile, pondering over this precious miracle in which I participated.
The next day, bright and early, I was on the beach. The nest was easy to spot, high upon the dune, where the sand is dry and no waves reach. The sand looked disturbed because of the digging, so I set to work to disguise it. I gathered seaweed that littered the beach. I carried dried sand from other parts of the dunes, and I gently covered that sacred spot, making it look as though nothing was there.
Every morning before school, I checked, and every afternoon, I checked again. Temperatures remained constant, and the sun shone every day. Weeks later, as I played on the beach, I saw a great trembling in the sand. I thought crabs had invaded the nest, and I hurried over to save the little ones. Right at my feet I began to see the baby sea turtles scramble their way out of the sand, and they hurried down the beach toward the ocean, totally oblivious of me.
Suddenly, the sky was filled with sea birds that launched themselves upon the little turtles. I began to scream, running around and waving my arms, as I tried to chase the birds away. I finally began to pick up the little turtles, using my sweater as a bag. I managed to save perhaps twenty squir
ming turtles and toss them beneath the waves. Then I sat on the beach and I cried, because I couldn’t save them all.
Joy and horror were over in minutes. My life had changed. Such a small event impressed itself heavily on me. For the first time in my life I understood how fleeting life is. How precious are the moments that we are given, and how costly life is if we neglect those moments.
When life seems to overcome me, I often think of that old turtle cow, spending fifty to a hundred years just doing what God intended for her to do. Those thoughts comfort me, and they remind me that though I am slow and getting older, I can still do my part, faithfully and gently. And when life is too hard for me to continue alone, God will always send someone to lend a helping hand.
I was blessed to play a small part in the life of one creature and in the lives of her babies. I discovered that though nature can be very cruel, God is intimately aware of every need, and he will often send someone, just as he sent me to rescue the babies and carry them safely to their home, beneath the waves.
Jaye Lewis
Pebble Magic
A beach is a necessary destination when you live on an island, a tiny chunk of rock in the middle of nowhere. You always catch yourself squinting toward the horizon, looking for other remote islands out there somewhere, perhaps islands with others sitting on beaches, squinting back at you.
One particular day at the beach, life seemed unfair. I’d lost a dear friend to cancer and just felt like sitting by myself, watching the endless waves. I wasn’t there to squint or to swim or to sun or to smile.
A stranger approached me. Judging from the striped umbrella and huge beach bag she was toting around, she was a tourist. She handed me a beach pebble, smiled warmly, and walked away. The whole time, she never uttered so much as a word to me.