It is cool today, for this time of year, in this place; but the water is warm enough for pleasant wading in the surf. The waves are rolling in from the northeast, carrying wet-suited surfers obliquely to the shore. The sea has been rough during the three days that we have been here: As the tide rises, the surf's assaults sculpt the coquina, sending foaming spray ricocheting skyward. Today, gray is missing from the seashore's palette: The robin's egg blue and white of the sky and the browns of the beach frame the greens, blues, and whites of the ocean.
Since I was a child, the ever-changing seashore has kept its primeval hold on me: through the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean pounding against the shore; through the feel of the sand beneath my feet, now soft, now firm, now wet, now dry, now warm, now cool, now coarse, now smooth; through the air's transmission to my skin of the sun's warmth, to my eyes of the sun's glare, to my body of the wind's pressure; through the waves rolling in incessantly, each a life cycle, no two alike, remaking the beach with each advance and retreat, erasing the brief imprint of my footsteps; through the symbiotic life forms in the sea, in the air, and on the shore. The sea itself remains familiar and mysterious to me: Even when calm, danger lurks in its depths, and potential for crushing violence remains stored in its waves. By day, I am mesmerized by the seashore's stupendous juxtaposition of earth, sky, and water. At night, I am comforted by the surf's roar and pounding, the planet's slow, irregular pulse.
Some say that life on earth was born in, and emerged from, the sea. Certainly, life cycles seem as natural to me at the seashore as they did in East Africa or in the Galapagos. I take some solace in thinking that my ashes will be cast into the ocean's vastness: whence some may reemerge on the shore.
Since I was a child, the ever-changing seashore has kept its primeval hold on me: through the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean pounding against the shore; through the feel of the sand beneath my feet, now soft, now firm, now wet, now dry, now warm, now cool, now coarse, now smooth; through the air's transmission to my skin of the sun's warmth, to my eyes of the sun's glare, to my body of the wind's pressure; through the waves rolling in incessantly, each a life cycle, no two alike, remaking the beach with each advance and retreat, erasing the brief imprint of my footsteps; through the symbiotic life forms in the sea, in the air, and on the shore. The sea itself remains familiar and mysterious to me: Even when calm, danger lurks in its depths, and potential for crushing violence remains stored in its waves. By day, I am mesmerized by the seashore's stupendous juxtaposition of earth, sky, and water. At night, I am comforted by the surf's roar and pounding, the planet's slow, irregular pulse.
Some say that life on earth was born in, and emerged from, the sea. Certainly, life cycles seem as natural to me at the seashore as they did in East Africa or in the Galapagos. I take some solace in thinking that my ashes will be cast into the ocean's vastness: whence some may reemerge on the shore.
