Just me and the sea gulls.
I snapped that photograph of the empty beach at 8:00 this morning. The beach was empty of people at ten and again at noon. Doubtless it will be just as empty at mid-afternoon and at dusk. Once today, while walking the unpeopled beach, I came across a set of footprints and felt some kinship with Crusoe when he found Friday’s impression in the sand.
I snapped that photograph of the empty beach at 8:00 this morning. The beach was empty of people at ten and again at noon. Doubtless it will be just as empty at mid-afternoon and at dusk. Once today, while walking the unpeopled beach, I came across a set of footprints and felt some kinship with Crusoe when he found Friday’s impression in the sand.
For forty years I have longed to winter at the coast. I love the ocean, the wind, the surf, and the getaway luxury of the beach any time of the year, but I was certain all these delights would be enhanced in the wintertime. Moreover, some pleasures of my summer beach days past are gone: I don’t swim in the ocean anymore, and my good dermatologist tells me to avoid the sun, both factors adding to my desire for a cold season stay.
Whether I will ever experience a long winter living at the ocean’s edge is doubtful, but this week did bring me five nights and days living out my fantasy. Courtesy of my son Jake, now owner of a house on Topsail Island, I am encamped on the Atlantic’s edge. Originally, when we discussed my visit here, the prospect of solitude and a December adventure excited me. I could write, and work, and read, and let the sight of the water and the scent of the brine take away my cares, even if just for a few days.
As the time drew closer, however, my enthusiasm waned. Suddenly, going to the beach—the packing, the extra driving, the bother of trying to fit the trip into Christmas—lost its luster. Had not Jake needed me to take care of some chores in the house itself—he and Laura were to return here before the beginning of the rental season in January, but circumstances changed their plans—I would have canceled my trip and gone straightaway to Asheville. Instead, I packed my bags and books, and provided with a cooler of treats from my daughter, headed out.
My Tuesday drive brought one fine surprise: light traffic. The empty highways, including most of I-95, astonished me. It was wonderful just zipping along in the Honda, listening to the radio or books on tape, sipping coffee, and watching the landscape gliding by.
At the house the weather reminded me of the season. The temperature was in the mid-30s, the wind stiff and damp, the skies gray and pregnant with rain. By the time I had unloaded the car, my fingers ached from the cold. The house itself took some time warming up. I ate a ham and cheese sandwich, and later fell asleep feeling lost and foolish for having made such a journey.
Then came the morning.
This new day brought buckets of sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. That ocean which yesterday had roiled cold and brackish with foam the color of dirty sand was now blue and cheerful with whitecaps. As the day progressed, the temperature shot up so that by late morning I could have taken a tan. By noon the temperature in the house had risen to 80 degrees from the sunlight pouring through the large glass windows.
Since waking, I have worked for two hours on a special piece of writing, walked for half an hour up and down the beach, finding a fossil of a star fish on a stone, done a few of the chores for my son, concocted a soup for lunch, organized my books and papers, and am now writing this piece. Beyond the sliding glass door in front of me are the dancing ocean and blue sky, the wind, the whitecaps, and the edge of the horizon.
The beach for me is a place of healing and reflection. The dull roar of the surf alone—we’re just past high tide—washes away cares, clears the mind, and renews the spirit. The solitude in which I will live for these next few days might trouble some people, but I am accustomed to being alone and solitary days make for good work.
I’m glad I’m here.
Just me and the gulls.
Merry Christmas, all.
Whether I will ever experience a long winter living at the ocean’s edge is doubtful, but this week did bring me five nights and days living out my fantasy. Courtesy of my son Jake, now owner of a house on Topsail Island, I am encamped on the Atlantic’s edge. Originally, when we discussed my visit here, the prospect of solitude and a December adventure excited me. I could write, and work, and read, and let the sight of the water and the scent of the brine take away my cares, even if just for a few days.
As the time drew closer, however, my enthusiasm waned. Suddenly, going to the beach—the packing, the extra driving, the bother of trying to fit the trip into Christmas—lost its luster. Had not Jake needed me to take care of some chores in the house itself—he and Laura were to return here before the beginning of the rental season in January, but circumstances changed their plans—I would have canceled my trip and gone straightaway to Asheville. Instead, I packed my bags and books, and provided with a cooler of treats from my daughter, headed out.
My Tuesday drive brought one fine surprise: light traffic. The empty highways, including most of I-95, astonished me. It was wonderful just zipping along in the Honda, listening to the radio or books on tape, sipping coffee, and watching the landscape gliding by.
At the house the weather reminded me of the season. The temperature was in the mid-30s, the wind stiff and damp, the skies gray and pregnant with rain. By the time I had unloaded the car, my fingers ached from the cold. The house itself took some time warming up. I ate a ham and cheese sandwich, and later fell asleep feeling lost and foolish for having made such a journey.
Then came the morning.
This new day brought buckets of sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. That ocean which yesterday had roiled cold and brackish with foam the color of dirty sand was now blue and cheerful with whitecaps. As the day progressed, the temperature shot up so that by late morning I could have taken a tan. By noon the temperature in the house had risen to 80 degrees from the sunlight pouring through the large glass windows.
Since waking, I have worked for two hours on a special piece of writing, walked for half an hour up and down the beach, finding a fossil of a star fish on a stone, done a few of the chores for my son, concocted a soup for lunch, organized my books and papers, and am now writing this piece. Beyond the sliding glass door in front of me are the dancing ocean and blue sky, the wind, the whitecaps, and the edge of the horizon.
The beach for me is a place of healing and reflection. The dull roar of the surf alone—we’re just past high tide—washes away cares, clears the mind, and renews the spirit. The solitude in which I will live for these next few days might trouble some people, but I am accustomed to being alone and solitary days make for good work.
I’m glad I’m here.
Just me and the gulls.
Merry Christmas, all.