Shadows cross my eyelids as small feet race past, kicking sand onto my arms, my belly. Something drives the seagulls into a frenzy. They shriek, descend, rise, wheel, flap, outraged and furious.

A pod of dolphins swims past, followed by a pelican, followed by an inflatable canoe, propelled by a double ended oar wielded by the human inside it. More humans stand, lined up against the surf, yelling "Dolphin! Dolphin!" in the same tone of one screaming "Shark! Shark!"

I race across the sand, charging a pack of gulls, forcing them to flight, just because it feels so good to run. I arrive breathless at my blanket, sprawling on my back, watching the jolt of pulse in my stomach as it rises and falls with each breath.

The surf is louder, the tow stronger, the waves larger than they've been all day. I have finally sprayed suntan oil onto my overheated body. I feel it crawling down, across, my thighs.

I hunker down at water's edge, crouching, gathering shells, smacked in the face every so often, gathering shells, gathering shells. I love what these chipped fragments represent: the constancy and the transience of matter. From shell to shard to sand, manufactured into glass, to shard to driftglass, to sand again. Ashes to ashes? I think not. Sand, always sand.

A formation of geese soars through my field of vision. Two others have passed, but this one is perfect in its symmetry. I watch it until it vanishes in the mist.

On the line where sea meets sky, a tanker sits, motionless. Of course it is not motionless, I saw it approach. It must be moving. The sea is flat and still like rippled glass, frothy only at the edges, and beyond imagining in its hugeness. Still, I know I can swim out to that ship. I can! I will! I won't; the water is too cold. Gulls dive from the wooden pier, hunting, then float like decoys, bobbing atop the breathy rise and fall of imperceptible waves.

The sun moves, the wind changes. The sea that reaches the beach now originates from a different place. The water is greyish brown where it once was jade green, less cold, and smells of death.

The ship has disappeared from view.

28 August



Day at the beach was wonderful...sun shining, surf smashing, seagulls screaming...

Alaina runs headlong at the pigeons and seagulls, chasing them into flight, falling, sprawling facedown into the sand, rolling, rolling...I'm a french fry, I'm a cinnamon roll! Racing to the water, running into the waves, jumping, diving into the surf...

Garrett, wheedling for a special surf shirt called a "rash protector", straps his boogie board tether to his wrist, and tows it out further than we are quite comfortable with, searching for a wave to ride.

I greet the sea, coat my body with salt water, walk on the granite jetty, stroll the Boardwalk, search the beach shops, watch the humans interact with each other and the setting. A biker with Lone Wolf tattooed across his back, and arms decorated like sleeves arrives with two preteen girls, a chubby blonde one, obviously his daughter, and a thin too-early gorgeous brunette, who seems overly self-contained. They strip and race, exhuberant, to the sea.

I am lulled into a stupor by creeling gulls, crashing sea, children shreiking, the electronic bleat of the foghorn on the jetty. Every now and then, the world quiets, a moment between the rhythmic roaring of surf, as though the sea draws a breath.

A pair of nine year olds toss a football, whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack. Wait, one of them says, and pauses to tug the bottoms of her swimsuit into a more comfortable position. The other, in a rainbow tank suit, sighs and tosses hair over her shoulder. Whoosh-smack, whoosh-smack.

Heavy raindrops, cold and driven, a noisy, sparking sky, chase people from the Boardwalk. Rain across the ocean blurs the line between sky and sea. The sky flashes madly, reaching out to touch the water.

It was fabulous.

26 August