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.
Storm chasers are bold (some would say foolish) folks who race to observe a hurricane or tornado. I’ve become just the opposite, a storm dodger. Afternoon showers are such a common occurrence here that I plan my days around them.
I walk the beach in the morning. At 3 p.m. I’m scanning the sky. Are those dark clouds forming in the west? How quickly are they moving? When do I leave the beach and head for shelter?
There’s an art to this. Depart too soon and I’ll miss out on precious time in the sun and surf. Leave too late and I’ll be drenched.
In fact, I’m writing this post while waiting for some storm clouds to pass so I can take a dip in the pool. Another day in the life of a storm dodger.
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.
The skin is an organ. But it’s an organ that blushes. No wonder, then, that we treat it differently than we do, say, our liver or spleen. Specifically — and especially at this time of year — we protect it from the sun. Or we don’t.
For many years, I actively sought a tan. I was a member of the baby-oil-and-baking-on-a-beach crowd. I sunbathed on my towel in various parks in Chicago and New York City. I’d spend entire days outdoors daubing on only a little SPF 8. I even laid out on the hot tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment.
Tans made me look better, I thought. They evened out my skin tone, gave me a rosy glow. They also, through the years, damaged my skin.
I converted to sunscreen years ago, 45 SPF or higher. But this summer, I’m redoubling my efforts. I reapply often. Sometimes, I even carry sunscreen around in my purse. I’ve become, if not fanatical, at least responsible. And so, I enter the summer pasty and white — or make that pale and healthy.
The wind that made beach combing and cycling harder than they needed to be last week in Chincoteague seems to have followed us home. For the last couple of days there have been gusts up to 40 or 45 miles per hour.
I decided to take a walk anyway, because I was driving past the W&OD and thought I’d give it a whirl. A whirlwind was more like it.
The breeze blustered, it careened, it nearly knocked me off my feet. And while my hat was fairly secure, my hood was anything but, especially when I was walking into the wind. It blew it right off my head. At times it took both hands on the hood to keep it from flying back.
Luckily, a hood is usually attached to a coat whereas a hat is not. Which makes the phrase “hold onto your hood” … somewhat nonsensical.
(“Who has seen the wind?” The ripples in this sand dune prove it was there.)
Water, wind, sand and sky. From these basic elements flow the beauty of a beach. It doesn’t need anything else. But like a little black dress set off to perfection with a single strand of pearls, even simplicity can be enhanced with a little bling.
I’ve seen beach art before, but never so much of it. On a hike this week we came across scores of tree trunks decorated with whelks, conches, cockle shells — and a few feathers for good measure.
The shell trees made us smile. They invited us to contribute, which we did. They sum up the beach attitude: relax, create, enjoy.
A hike yesterday through the refuge backcountry, so far in fact, that the Maryland state line was less than five miles away.
I’ve always thought it would be fun to trek from one state to another, a feat fairly easily accomplished here, since the Assateague National Seashore includes parts of Virginia and Maryland.
But yesterday’s walk stopped short of that, circled around and back to what I love most — the beach.