I would have been content to hear the sound of the waves, feel the coastal air, and watch the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean lap the shoreline. I could do that without actually getting on the sand. Wet sand compacts into a nicely firm, somewhat smooth surface that is generally as walk-able as any solid floor. Dry sand, on the other hand, is anything but. Even without the additional “foot” of the cane, dry sand can be hard to maneuver for anyone with mobility issues. When you have a beach, you have both: dry and wet. The only time you do not is high tide, and then you have no need of walking far out on the sand to get to the surf.
I knew Sunday morning was the time. I was going home today. I woke up early enough that even the devout were still abed. I had found the place that would get me to the beach without the stairs that accompanied most access points in Newport. I drove into the parking lot with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. I wasn’t sure what this was going to be like, just that I had to do it. I was in luck, the lot was practically empty. There would be fewer people to see me struggle. The Pacific was beckoning.
I walked slowly down the ramp and into the sand. Damn! I had forgotten just how hard it was. The cane was just one more thing to sink into the dry sand. It just barely served its usual purpose to remind me what balance is. Not like I could look up and enjoy the view as I was slogging through it either. There were hazards to avoid: last night’s beer cans, bit of plastic, charcoaled fire sites. I noticed the first people on the beach with me were locals, picking up trash. I slogged on determinedly with all three feet, and tried not to think about how ridiculous and pathetic I might look. I had my little Ziploc bag for collecting treasures and sand, my camera, and a few shreds of dignity somewhere holding on for dear life as I tried to take the most direct approach to the wet sand about 50 feet away.
I made it to the wet sand. I wondered that people who do not have disabilities assume that going to the beach is resting on the sand, sun bathing, toes in the waves, brief tops and shorts, bathing suits. I hadn’t actually done that in years. I mean many, many years. My thighs have not purposely been seen in broad daylight, in public, since the 1980s. But here I was, emerging triumphant from the initial morass. I tried not to think of how I would get back to the parking lot.
I reveled in the feel of the spray in the air, and I smiled. I felt once more the power of the Pacific, and the timeless sense that comes from watching the waves – this happens, and has happened since time immemorial: centuries upon decades upon years upon moments. I am struck, as always, by the profoundly humbling sense that this was a reality long before I appeared on earth. It will still be here long after I have passed on. It was here when the first Asians crossed the land bridge from Alaska onto North America. It was here when Odysseus set off for Troy. It was here when Shakespeare penned his first sonnet. It was here when Lincoln read from an envelope in Gettysburg. It will be here when my nephew is old enough to make his own adult treks to the ocean. It has almost been here forever. Not quite. But it has been long enough to wear a thin patina of eternity.
Gradually, so that I barely noticed, the waves begin to sing. Their song is ancient and enduring. It speaks of time, and spaces, and places far removed yet connected by the shifting waves. It sang with a smile of artificial boundaries of sea to sea. Are there really seven? Or are they all one sea wrapping our own celestial orb in dynamic majesty?
The air became an embrace. It transferred the churning energy of the waves through the air. I felt the power of this eternal cathedral start to seep into my hopelessly transient being. I found myself smiling, not just at the dogs and passers bye, but at “being” as a whole. One sea. One air. One world. One life.
It was time to return to the car. Even the embrace of eternity cannot forestall the tiring of two arthritic knees. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay in this state of grace. I slowly worked my way back up the tide line. The treasures I had come to fetch appeared as if they were waiting for me. I swore one feather actually called my name as I stood looking at it dumbfounded, and finally heeded the call - adding it to my bag.
As I got closer to the parking lot, I kept turning and looking back at the surf: feeling the ebbing touch of the ocean, hearing the chorus of the waves sing their unending canon. I found a large snag at the top of the beach and I sat to watch for a few final minutes. My shoes were full of sand, and it caressed my skin and supported my foot. It was not an annoyance. It was as if I had physically carried the seas embrace back up the beach with me.
The parking lot had filled in the time I had been on the sands. I began to notice the people around me: a girl with her grandfather and her six month old golden retriever, an older couple who wore the smiles of those who have made many such morning pilgrimages, a young man in his twenties with his friends. The young man had trouble on the sand too, though he didn’t have a cane and was easily twenty five years younger than I. His friend came back from the wet sand and lent him a shoulder to help him get to firmer ground. I thought of early Christians bearing up those in pain to be healed. “Welcome to the Cathedral of the Waves!: your soul can be soothed, your strength renewed, and you can find redemption. All you have to do is cross the dry sands of doubt, fear, egotism, self-absorption and let the holy arms of the Ocean reach out and fill your soul with everlasting power. Hallelujah!” Each one I saw, every person on that Sacred Sunday morning, carried a little plastic bag. We all wanted to go home with a little bit of grace found amidst a singing chorus, in the vibrant presence of the eternity.
by Judy Cullen
"for DB"
2011 all rights reserved
"for DB"
