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Fast Walk at High Tide

Fast Walk at High Tide

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The sun is well up in the sky, the aroma of sunscreen fills the air, all the shells have been found. It’s a fast walk at high tide.

Yes, the intentions are pure. I could imagine the early rising as I took 40 more winks, could feel myself pulling on running shoes, tying the laces, tucking my hair up in the baseball cap, heading out into a still, silent world where only a few beachcombers strolled meditatively along the shore.

Instead, I found myself hours later, dodging the breakers as they edged onto the only hard sand left, crunching the dross of smashed shells and dried seaweed.

It was hot, it was invigorating. It was a fast walk at high tide. 

Kinda Sorta Like Normal

Kinda Sorta Like Normal

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It’s not like you can forget the pandemic here. I’m aware that the virus is still raging. To get here, I wore both a mask and a face shield. And when I enter a grocery store, which is the only place I enter other than my room, people wear masks.

But on the beach, which is so broad and glorious, so built for social distancing, I can walk and look and sit and stare and pretend that life is whole once again.

In other words … it’s kinda, sorta like normal.

Holding On

Holding On

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What helps the beach state remain? I’m asking myself that question today, as I feel it slipping away.

I was off to a good start on the way home: a plane so empty that each passenger had his or her own row of seats.

Then a late-day landing that showcased the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the graceful spans across the Potomac, the compact graciousness of the place.

But today there was the long commute into Arlington, the work call that came in before I reached the office, the emails, the to-dos that piled up when I was gone.

Welcome back, they say.  I try not to listen. I hold onto the beach state for dear life!

Beach State

Beach State

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Today I leave the beach. That much is indisputable. But I hope to keep the beach state.

The beach state, as you might suspect, is the habit of pondering clouds and palm trees. It’s also the habit of not caring as much about every little thing. It’s the habit of letting go.

Beaches, after all, are receptacles. Onto them is thrown the flotsam of the sea, and from this random collection of shells and plastic bits comes sand both smooth and powdery (depending upon how close it is to the ocean). The beach, in short, is accomplished at acceptance.

This is something I would like to emulate, the beach state of acceptance. So it’s that I would like to take home with me.

It’s easy to think about retaining the beach state with the smell of sun on my skin and a tropical breeze moving palm fronds to and fro. Much more difficult when I’m standing on a crowded Metro train or sitting at my office desk, up to my ears in work.

But that’s when the beach state is needed most of all.

Beach Clouds

Beach Clouds

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Beach clouds differ from their mainland cousins. They cluster in the distance, looking gray and ugly. They throw down sheets of rain, giving themselves away.

Sometimes they scoot over the beach, leaving just droplets in their wake. We beach-goers take the brief pelting and shrug. We can see the sun breaks up ahead. We know we will have blue skies again soon.

I used to dread clouds at the beach; now I welcome them. They block some rays, cool me down, let me stay a few more precious minutes on the shore.

I’ve Got Rhythm

I’ve Got Rhythm

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It’s the rhythm that does it to me, the waves lapping, advancing and retreating, moving in and out.

It’s the palm trees swaying and the birds here, different from the ones back home.

It’s the landscape. Semitropical, lush — hot, yes, but where isn’t it hot these days?

The rhythm of Florida has become the pace of relaxation for me.

Bach to the Beach

Bach to the Beach

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One of the joys of a beach vacation is how few decisions need to be made. I love the hustle-bustle of a traveling getaway, one where you must decide which states or countries to visit, which sights to see, where to stay, which routes to drive.

But on a beach vacation you know what you’ll do. You’ll walk, read and swim. You’ll look at the ocean and marvel at the immensity of it all.

Yes, you must decide how to divvy up your days. Beach in the morning, pool in the afternoon — or vice versa?

And what you must also decide is what to listen to while striding down the strand. Yesterday, it was Bach. To “Sleepers Awake” I watched gulls swoop ands swerve. To “Sheep May Safely Grace” I dodged lizards in the dunes. To the “Toccata and Future in D” I saw thunderheads pile up in the east.

They almost chased me inside, but I kept walking and they blew over … for a while, at least.

Remembering Waves

Remembering Waves

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It’s been a tough work re-entry, so this morning I’m thinking about the beach. Most of the people I saw there are back home again, too. The vagaries of chance and locale that brought us together have split us apart again.

But we were renewed and refreshed by our contact with the elemental, with forces beyond our control. We encounter those all the time, of course, but seldom are they so powerful and so beautiful and so endlessly fascinating to observe.

I don’t swim in the ocean; I just look at it. But I never tire of its patterns and moods: of calm, warm, lapping waters or dark, fast, roiling ones. Of waves that roll and stipple and soothe. I’m seeing those waves now, and will see them later when I walk through the suburbs, when I make my way through the day.

The Tan

The Tan

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When I was young, a tan was something you sought, treasured and displayed. You laid out on lounge chairs or towels. You slathered on baby oil and basically fried out there. “Did you go to Florida?” high school classmates would ask after spring break.  “No, it was just my back yard,” I’d say, enjoying the surprise on their faces.

This is because I would lay out in all weathers, tilting my face to the sun, from which flowed all strength and goodness (or so it seemed). I liked the way I looked when I was tan; brown was beautiful.

When I was older I went to ocean beaches for my tan. When no shoreline was available (and it usually wasn’t), I settled for towels spread on the well-trod grass of Lincoln Park or the soft tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment building.

In time, grudgingly, I applied sunscreen. At first, only SPF 8. It was a pride thing. But later I tried the higher numbers. The tans, though reduced, still remained. I couldn’t imagine returning from a week at the beach without having skin that was a different color than the skin I left with.

Not anymore. This year I come back the same. I attribute this not to lack of time on the strand or at the pool — but to lavish use of SPF 50, a UV-protectant shirt I pulled on over my bathing suit and a towel draped over my legs.

I long ago realized that the “healthy glow” was not so healthy. There are wrinkles and age spots and worse.  So I was careful; I heeded the dermatologist’s warnings.

The beach vacation remains, but the tan is history.

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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I’m big on the backward glance, on analyzing what has happened, on figuring out from it what might be to come.

This does not go away when I’m at the beach. But it softens a little, like a once-crisp cracker at an al fresco lunch beside the waves.

At the beach it’s easier to see the back-and-forth of things, the ebbs and flows; easier to trust that all will be well.

I’m always looking for lessons, even from vacations. And that’s what this beach week is showing me: Clouds will pile up in the east, will show themselves as rain-makers by the dark slant beneath them. They will come this way, will empty and pass. And then … the sun will come out again.