Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (23 page)
“I seen it once on TV,” the old man said, “but never out here.”
“Man, that was something. Like they were trying to tell us something, you know?”
“Yeah, wonder what it was.”
“Heck if I know. Hey, mister, would you like another drink?”
Margaret P. Cunningham
“This is definitely not your typical beach.”
It was her way when life got too complicated, confusing, and overwhelming: She headed for a day at the ocean. There, she usually found a sense of rejuvenation, if not relaxation. There, she found a sense of perspective, if not understanding. There, a sense of peace, if not hope.
Even though it was the middle of February, the day was one that Lady July would have envied. The vase of the sky held only the bright flower of the sun, and it smiled warmly upon her. She could feel it trying to melt her hurt and pain.
The ocean itself was in a raging mood. Huge, rolling waves, white with fury, constantly came to the soaked shore. They pounded out their beat endlessly. Watching them crest and seeing their spray filtered in the sunlight, it seemed that they, too, were shedding tears. As far as she could see up and down the shore and out to sea, it was the same nonstop battering, weeping, and upheaval. Not unlike how her soul was feeling.
Her prayer that day, as it had been for too long, was for a healing of the hurt, healing of her spirit. And yet, more tears came.
It was later in the day when a walk away from the beach and up a mountainous cliff gave her a different view. High above the shore, she could still see and hear the waves. They hadn't changed what they were meant to do. They were still coming fast and furiously, wrenching all in their way, depositing the demise of their travels on the soul of the shore. From her vantage point, though, she could see beyond the wall of breakers. There, just behind the turmoil, lay the whole of the ocean, calm as a puddle, smooth as a newborn's cheek, peaceful as a whispered promise.
And, as had happened before, she received a gift from the ocean. This gift washed over her and through her and filled her. Standing where she was and seeing the panoramic view helped her to hang on to the belief that if she could just ride out the waves in her soul, then what's beyond them would bring calm, smoothness, and peace.
Their bounty would be endless. The gift was an ocean of hope.
JoAnn Clark
T
he goal in life is living in agreement with
nature.
Zeno
The old sea turtle slowly meandered her way up from the water and high onto the sand. It was almost dark, and I was the only one left on the beach. It was not unusual, on the southern Atlantic coast, to catch a glimpse of a sea turtle digging her nest and laying her eggs, but this one arrived late in the year. The hot sand baking in the sun, it was a perfect incubator, but soon the sea would start roiling from winter storms, and the sun was already sinking low to the south.
I was an eight-year-old dreamer, keeping my intent watch in the near dark. It was late enough; bedtime for me, but as usual, no one knew where I was. I was forbidden to go by myself on the beach at dusk, but nothing could tear me away from my quiet watch. I was about to take part in a miracle.
As I kept my watch on the beach, it became darker and the light grew dim, but I could still see the ancient creature waddle her way upon the shore. Every time she moved, I would creep closer. Trying desperately not to disturb her, I continued to steal forward, not wanting to miss a thing.
By the time the sea turtle began digging, I was very near. She seemed to dig awfully slow. Turtles on the move can move remarkably fast, but this cow was making slow progress. I crept nearer until I was nearly upon her. What was wrong? Then, I saw that the female sea turtle had only one usable back leg. As she dug, she made lopsided progress. I wondered what to do.
All of a sudden her eye moved, and I thought she looked right at me. I felt an incredible urge to help her. I reached beneath her, and I began to dig under her maimed leg. When the hole was nearly big enough to hold me, she stopped digging, and she began to drop her eggs. I quickly moved back to watch: one, two, three, fourâeach egg dropped rapidly, like little Ping-Pong balls, with soft, leathery shells. There must have been dozens. Tears came to her eyes and dropped onto the sand.
Not knowing that this was a natural part of the sea turtles' birth cycle, I wondered, as a little girl, why she was crying. Was she hurting? Or was she crying because she knew that her babies would not make it home? Perhaps she knew of the people who would steal her eggs or the sea birds that would snatch her babies before they reached the sea. Perhaps it was a way that God provided, so that this little girl could connect through him, with her. When I saw her tears, it hurt my heart. I felt the tears seep from my eyes and drop to the sand, mingling with hers.
When she was finished laying her eggs, the old sea turtle began to fill the hole. I hastened to help her, and still she allowed my intrusion. Then she wandered back down the beach, into the sea, and she dove beneath the waves. I sat there awhile, pondering over this precious miracle in which I participated.
The next day, bright and early, I was on the beach. The nest was easy to spot, high upon the dune, where the sand is dry and no waves reach. The sand looked disturbed because of the digging, so I set to work to disguise it. I gathered seaweed that littered the beach. I carried dried sand from other parts of the dunes, and I gently covered that sacred spot, making it look as though nothing was there.
Every morning before school, I checked, and every afternoon, I checked again. Temperatures remained constant, and the sun shone every day. Weeks later, as I played on the beach, I saw a great trembling in the sand. I thought crabs had invaded the nest, and I hurried over to save the little ones. Right at my feet I began to see the baby sea turtles scramble their way out of the sand, and they hurried down the beach toward the ocean, totally oblivious of me.
Suddenly, the sky was filled with sea birds that launched themselves upon the little turtles. I began to scream, running around and waving my arms, as I tried to chase the birds away. I finally began to pick up the little turtles, using my sweater as a bag. I managed to save perhaps twenty squirming turtles and toss them beneath the waves. Then I sat on the beach and I cried, because I couldn't save them all.
Joy and horror were over in minutes. My life had changed. Such a small event impressed itself heavily on me. For the first time in my life I understood how fleeting life is. How precious are the moments that we are given, and how costly life is if we neglect those moments.
When life seems to overcome me, I often think of that old turtle cow, spending fifty to a hundred years just doing what God intended for her to do. Those thoughts comfort me, and they remind me that though I am slow and getting older, I can still do my part, faithfully and gently. And when life is too hard for me to continue alone, God will always send someone to lend a helping hand.
I was blessed to play a small part in the life of one creature and in the lives of her babies. I discovered that though nature can be very cruel, God is intimately aware of every need, and he will often send someone, just as he sent me to rescue the babies and carry them safely to their home, beneath the waves.
Jaye Lewis
A beach is a necessary destination when you live on an island, a tiny chunk of rock in the middle of nowhere. You always catch yourself squinting toward the horizon, looking for other remote islands out there somewhere, perhaps islands with others sitting on beaches, squinting back at you.
One particular day at the beach, life seemed unfair. I'd lost a dear friend to cancer and just felt like sitting by myself, watching the endless waves. I wasn't there to squint or to swim or to sun or to smile.
A stranger approached me. Judging from the striped umbrella and huge beach bag she was toting around, she was a tourist. She handed me a beach pebble, smiled warmly, and walked away. The whole time, she never uttered so much as a word to me.
I watched her get into a rental car and drive off. Puzzled, I examined the off-white pebble in my hand, so cool to the touch. Perfectly rounded by the wonders of the sea, it had a salty smell. Somehow I felt comforted by the pebble. I looked around at all the pebbles surrounding me and realized I wasn't alone on the island, or the planet, after all.
I decided to keep the meaningful gift. It's now six years later and I still have it on the kitchen windowsill. It's my constant reminder that angels have placed every single pebble on all the beaches of the world.
We can squint or strain our eyes all we want, but chances are we'll never see one of these elusive characters. Just because we can't see angels doesn't mean they haven't been there!
Beach pebbles are the proof. Who else would go to all the trouble to decorate our beaches with so many pebbles that we could never count them?
Roberta Beach Jacobson
Uncle Hamish and the Beach Donkey
I
hada lover's quarrel with the world.
Robert Frost
When I was a young girl in northeast Scotland, our home was invaded every summer by relatives who came to have a vacation by the sea. My cousins Jackie and her brother Iain arrived every June and stayed with us throughout their six-week school holidays. There was only one exception to the welcome visitors, and that was Uncle Hamish.
The only good thing about Hamish was that he was married to my mum's sister Dolly, and she was so much fun. When my cousins and I were alone, we used to talk about Uncle Hamish; we dreaded his stay because he did nothing but complain.
He didn't like the seaside and he certainly didn't like children! He complained that the water was too cold and the sand was so fine it blew everywhere. The sand flies always bit him more than anyone else, and he didn't like us going on the donkey rides, as the poor donkeys must be sick of us kids. We paid a small amount most days to ride a donkey along the sand, and we loved it. Nothing pleased Uncle Hamish; his ice cream always melted and fell on his shoes. That never happened to us; mind you, we never had it long enough to let it melt!
In the 1950s, there were two rows of changing huts or cubicles at the top of the beach. They had wooden roofs and canvas sides and a little wooden bench in each one where you could leave your clothes once you had changed into your swimming costume.
Uncle Hamish was in one of these in the front row, just bending over to fold his jacket, when something cold and wet rubbed itself down the back of his legs. He leaped out in alarm, and we all screamed and laughed as one of the donkeys, which had stuck its head into the cubicle to investigate, ran off.
Uncle Hamish changed his views of the donkeys from then onwards. If one came near him, he would glare as if warning it off and then mutter something under his breath that made Aunt Dolly caution him.
I was ten the year that Mum told us “Uncle Hamish has had a heart attack.” We weren't quite sure what that was, but we knew by Mum's reaction that it was something serious. It turned out that Uncle Hamish's heart attack had been mild and that he would be all right. Although we didn't like him much, we realized that he might have died and were glad he was okay.
When it came to summer and Mum said, “Guess what, Uncle Hamish and Auntie Dolly are coming as usual,” we all tried to smile. We had thought that with his illness, coming to the seaside would thoroughly irritate him and would not be his best option.
It was when we were playing in the garden that I heard Mum and Aunt Dolly talking. “Well, I said to Hamish, âYou have had a warning. Let's stop saving every penny for a rainy day and take a really good holiday for a change!'”
“So what happened that you came back here?” Mum asked her.
“This is what he wanted. He said there was nowhere else he would rather spend his holidays than here on the beach with the kids!” Aunt Dolly explained.
I heard a kind of surprise in Mum's voice at that but all she said was, “I thought he just put up with it all!”
Aunt Dolly laughed, “Oh that's just Hamish's way; he never admits to enjoying himself. The more he complains, the more fun he seems to have!”