A Walker in the Suburbs

I made my first trip to Florida at the age of 10. It took us three days to drive from Lexington to Miami. 

It was January. We’d left the cold behind by day two of our drive, but even so the balminess of the Florida air was a surprise. It was nighttime when we finally pulled into our motel near Biscayne Bay, and the combination of darkness and sultriness has stayed with me all these years, potent memories of a place different from any other I’d visited. 

Florida has changed drastically since then, but it retains that other-worldliness. Like the lush Northwest, Florida is its own place, and it’s a privilege to spend a week a year savoring its big sky, palm trees and sugar-sand beach. It’s a combination I’ve come to think of as scenic hospitality, and this morning, back in Virginia, I’m appreciating it all the more.

(A picket fence I walked by every morning on my way to the beach. It’s decorated with pineapples, the symbol of hospitality.)

I felt like a commuter walking against the throng. Everyone was leaving. I had missed the sunset, one of the chief entertainments around here.

Taking myself to task as I watched the darkening sky, I wished I’d spent less time searching through the t-shirts and trinkets.

But light was lingering in the west. I could still enjoy the afterglow. Which is what I did … and what I plan to do as this beach trip becomes another beautiful memory. 

A walk by the sea provides its own ceaseless beat. In and out. Strike and pause. The rhythm of the surf is the rhythm of life, more or less. 

As I’ve walked the strand these last few days, I’ve thought about family and friends, about how grateful I am for them — and how grateful I am for this time apart in which to appreciate them. 

Just as a wave rolls to shore before being absorbed back into the ocean, so does all life pulse with this ebb and flow. We are not inert creatures but products of movement and motion. 

I’ve got rhythm. We all do. 

No insult intended, but all shade is not created equal. There is the thin stuff you find on a warm summer afternoon. It’s accidental, created only by the intersection of building and sunlight. It’s great to find it, and I’ve even crossed a street for it, but it’s not a true, deep, cultivated shade. 

There’s a watering hole I pass on my way to the beach, a small restaurant and bar that has mastered the art of shade I remember from trips to hot, faraway places where air conditioning is nonexistent. 

This is intentional shade: deep and palmetto-fringed. Ceiling fans are whirring and large rotating fans are blowing. The place is recessed but open. Every time I pass by I’m tempted to linger in its recesses, to seek relief in its dark, cool interior.

The discerning beach-walker is a connoisseur of sand. Too hard and it’s like walking on pavement. Too soft and it requires twice the effort to go the same distance. 

So one becomes aware of a tension, a balance, between moisture and dryness, tide-in and tide-out. The feet search for this balance without prompting, seeking the best path along the strand.

Sometimes they find it and sometimes they don’t. But there’s a pleasure in the process. 

A return to the ocean and its salt breezes, to palm trees and lizards that bask in the sun. A return to the beach.

I’ve grown quite fond of the subtropical climate and what it does to the muscles and synapses. In short, it relaxes them. 

It’s tempting to end the post right here. 

And maybe … I will.