Sand Still
I'm at Ocean Beach in San Diego. 40 feet, maybe, from the shoreline. Seagulls and pigeons cohabitate on the bare-footprint covered sand. Shoeprints and lifeguard tire tracks make temporary imprints too. The OB Pier is closed. "Perhaps for a while. A year even," says a friendly wave watcher. "They might be doing some renovations."
Surfers. Long-haired, slender, stereotypical, San Diego surfers: mostly sitting on their boards beyond the wave break, bobbing up and down with their backs toward the beach. They periodically ride a wave in, crash, and then paddle back out to their spot at about the midpoint of the pier, and await another wave to catch. I watch them. They watch the horizon.
In August, about four months ago, I was at Nokomis Beach on the Gulf Coast of Florida. No surfers. Not really waves to attract them. Retirees, shark teeth, seagulls, and an iconic, clear-skied, sunset. I jotted down some notes on the "clarity" I was experiencing at that time. I had gone for a run on the beach. I was reflecting, crying, contemplating life and relationships. I wrote this:
"I ran on the sand today from the lifeguard tower to the jetty and back. I began the run feeling a deep sadness: happy yet anxious that my time in Florida was over, scared for the future, uncertain. I finished feeling a deep connection to the sand under my bare feet. It was clear to me that no matter what happens in my relationships with other people, that the sand and the ocean will always be there. If I ever feel alone, I can walk on the shore and feel comforted by the nature, the life, around me. It was clear that no matter what, I'll be okay."
Today I'm at a different shoreline: the even more “Pacific” Coast. A different demographic of passerbys and onlookers. People still. Ground to its current, dusty state from a different rock than its Florida counterparts. Sand still. Colder, yes. A similar rhythm though: patient roll towards the sandy shore; quick retreat back towards the horizon. Ocean still. Clarity still. Comfort still. Seagulls still.
A middle aged woman is decorating the iconic star pine for the OB Christmas Parade. She asks me to watch her boxes of ornaments while she runs to her car. We're both here. Now. Our thoughts and plans both supported by the sand below, and gently muffled by the rolling waves ahead.
