I grew up pretty near the Pacific Ocean. It was a matter of a couple of hours to get to its shores from home, and mere minutes’ drive to Puget Sound, and I have always loved any chance to spend time along the water. At home in Texas, it’s not so easy: there are a few man-made lakes within a short drive, with a few public beach spots along the edges of each, most of the time too hot for strolling, and that’s about it. So that recent trip to Puerto Rico was a brief but lovely reminder of what pleasure I find in wandering the beach when I can, absorbing not only a bit of salt water through my happy bare feet and the tangy air through my expanding lungs but also the great sense of history and adventure inherent in all of the findings strewn along the tidal brink.
Despite being so much a water-baby at heart, I’ve never so much loved open water swimming—after all, my people are the pale, easily fried folk of Norway who transplanted to the familiarly brisk spank of the coastal waters to fish and farm and forest-hunt as they’d done back in the old country. But I’m drawn all the same to explore the tide-pools and comb through the heaps of hidden-and-revealed treasure that line the beach, sucking deep breaths of sea breeze happily right down to my soul. I love to see all of the bits of shell and bone and stone piled up and intermingled with molted feathers, ship detritus and the petrified lace of corals and seaweed. Every tiny piece seems to hold such a storied past that I can stare and sift and dream endlessly.
What caused that lone shoe to wash up here from unknown shores? Why are those pieces of sea-soaked driftwood burnt but not in the fire pit, rather appearing like a dragon-singed skeleton in a distant heap down the shore? How did so many colors of ghostly and sandblasted beach glass come to bejewel the line of the tide together? Who were the creatures that fished the shore and left bleached fish bones here, a crab shell there? When did the storms kick up such a foment of foam that the inland side of mean high tide has a gloss of it lacquered firmly across the surface of its sand? Where are the children whose sandcastle ruins are still tucked behind the biggest boulders on the beach, waving flags of leaf and kelp from their stunted battlements? And most importantly, when can I return to the beach to stroll and dream of such things again?
I have a smilar feeling when beach combing
I’m hoping for a few more opportunities to revisit the ‘sport’ this summer! Hope you get some, too. 😀
This weekend with a bit of luck
Beautiful ocean gifts:)
Aren’t they lovely. Whether I keep them or not, they enrich my life just by introducing their stories into my days.
Beautiful shell photos! I love the beach too. 🙂
Another coastal baby! 😉
I love walking on the beach and try and take the dogs for a walk as often as possible. Stunning photos Kathryn 🙂
Lucky dogs! Lucky you! 🙂
it’s been a very long time since I’ve had the opportunity to stroll on a beach, so thanks for sharing the memories … the last time I went to the beach, my now aging dog was just a pup, and he jumped and jumped into the air, trying to catch seagulls … I swear he was trying to fly
I love the image of your dog attempting flight! So should we all. 🙂