Waves: A Story
She had always loved going to the beach. The Beach was happy childhood vacations to Nannie and Popie's house. The Beach was sunshine and sea shells and picking up sand dollars with her toes. The Beach had the smell of salt and sunscreen and the taste of watermelon. The Beach was bright colors and sunglasses and laughter and sand castles. Yes, she had always loved The Beach. And, as she sat there today, by herself, she realized that the beach was different.
She tried to run unabashedly into the waves, but didn't want to get her hair wet. She tried to build a castle, but was missing the bucket and necessary extra pair of hands. She didn't have the heart to struggle with evenly applying sunscreen to her back, so she let her skin burn. She found herself laying on her sarong, eyes closed, headphones covering her ears, wondering what she forgot.
Then, she opened her eyes and saw two little girls squealing with delight as they ran hand in hand into the water. She saw a mother chasing a naked 2-year-old boy with his swim trunks in one hand and a bottle of SPF 50 in the other. And she realized, that the beach had not changed, but she sees it differently.
No longer does she come to dig in the sands and share her lunch with sea gulls. No longer does she come for the wonders of what she finds within her reach. Now, she comes to the beach for the waves. She sits, mesmorized, some days giddy with excitement and some evenings in silent awe of the crashing forces of the Pacific Waves. She rests her eyes on the horizon, watching them grow and accelerate, crest and crash. She sees all she needs to know fo peace and turmoil in the waves and her breath sometimes catches in her throat at the sight of them. In this conflict between exhilaration and calm, she finds joy.
As she sits in the local coffee house, among San Diego's most proudly gay and beautiful people, sipping an iced chai, she reflects on The Beach and realizes that, just like when she was a small child, she has come home with sand in her hair and a pink glow under her skin.
She tried to run unabashedly into the waves, but didn't want to get her hair wet. She tried to build a castle, but was missing the bucket and necessary extra pair of hands. She didn't have the heart to struggle with evenly applying sunscreen to her back, so she let her skin burn. She found herself laying on her sarong, eyes closed, headphones covering her ears, wondering what she forgot.
Then, she opened her eyes and saw two little girls squealing with delight as they ran hand in hand into the water. She saw a mother chasing a naked 2-year-old boy with his swim trunks in one hand and a bottle of SPF 50 in the other. And she realized, that the beach had not changed, but she sees it differently.
No longer does she come to dig in the sands and share her lunch with sea gulls. No longer does she come for the wonders of what she finds within her reach. Now, she comes to the beach for the waves. She sits, mesmorized, some days giddy with excitement and some evenings in silent awe of the crashing forces of the Pacific Waves. She rests her eyes on the horizon, watching them grow and accelerate, crest and crash. She sees all she needs to know fo peace and turmoil in the waves and her breath sometimes catches in her throat at the sight of them. In this conflict between exhilaration and calm, she finds joy.
As she sits in the local coffee house, among San Diego's most proudly gay and beautiful people, sipping an iced chai, she reflects on The Beach and realizes that, just like when she was a small child, she has come home with sand in her hair and a pink glow under her skin.
posted by eRmOdi | 12:49 AM
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