At the Beach

From my sedentary seat on the beach chair I watch the children run from their arrival at the beach to the water of the Pacific Ocean! Arms spread wide like wings and with a scream of absolute joy, the children rush runningly to the water. During low tide it could certainly seem to me a long way to Tipperary, so to speak, especially for those with little legs. As I sit heavily in my beach chair, I comment to Elizabeth that as soon as a child hits the beach and sees the water, they take off as if they were a sprinter at the crack of the starter pistol. Most seem not at all afraid of the water and do not pause as they approach the ocean: even at high tide a three-year-old can plop safely down sitting in the water with seemingly little concern of being overwhelmed by the water. They do so. Sometimes the children just falls face down into the surf and spread themselves face down in the warm water, though even then in the shallow water their little backsides appear sounded above the tide almost like the small hump of a baby whale. Parents don’t usually seem overly concerned for their child’s well-being; some do follow slowly behind to enjoy the child’s cavorting delightedly in the shallow waters. Others watch from a distance unconcerned. And the children don’t look back. But when they are done, they exist the water and again take off in a run back to where the parents have sat themselves down in beach chairs. 

The water of the Pacific Ocean here in Costa Rica is warm, and even I, who am not a swimmer, a surf or a boogie board rider, occasionally enjoy a tussle with the waves and especially so in high tide. But I walk slowly to the water, at first allowing the weakening waves close to the shore to climb up my body; I continue to walk until I am acclimated up to my neck at which time I dive into a breaking wave. I go to the water to cool myself down from the scorching temperatures and not to play. The waves crash in and I dive under them—with less and less enthusiasm—until finally my nose is so filled with ocean water that I head back to my chair, clear my sinuses, refresh my sun screen, put on my hat and sun glasses and watch the amateur surfers attempt to rise up and all too readily fall. And I marvel at the children as they run with so much glee to the water. 

As I age, which I do too quickly and regularly, I move more slowly. The only destination is to death, and I am in no hurry. I choose to saunter and measure my effort in steps and not in time. As Thoreau says, it is a great art to saunter. I have become an artist of sauntering.  I step cautiously, nonetheless. I’ve been thinking about Chris Smither’s song, “Leave the Light On.” He sings, 

These races that we’ve run were not for glory – 

No moral to this story –
We run for peace of mind.
But the race we’re running now is never-ending – space and time are bending
And there’s no finish line -
Don’t wait up – Leave the light on
I’ll be home soon

I’m not exactly sure what Smithers might mean when he refers to the race never-ending with no finish line. Or perhaps I just have a different perspective. Though I walk slowly to the water and head directly back to my chair, I still head into the waves that at least on the warm Pacific Coast I enjoy. I understand that it is at least no longer fame and wealth for which I run, and that perhaps it never was my goal. But somehow whatever it was that I did I felt that I did by some inner compulsion that I probably little understood at the time. It is possible that even now I can’t know the complex motives that inspired me to act and that still does send me out walking to the waves, But though I am sauntering and not running, though I move slowly towards the water’s edge and tentatively approach the waves, I want to remain out there in the race, so, yes, I’ll be home soon so leave the light on, please, and maybe have a large towel with which I might dry off.