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September 2016

In the rearview mirror of our summer, Rehoboth Beach gets smaller and smaller as we return to upstate New York. Not quite ready to let go of the sand and the sun and the summer itself, I relish each moment of our ride home, trying to bring a bit of the sea home with us. Already, I miss it and the calming effect it has on us. The ritual of putting on sunblock, of packing books and iced tea and towels, of leaving the phone and the wallet and the worldly cares in the hotel room as we walk to the sandy shore – these are the little traditions we set up and practiced daily, and we fell into them as joyfully as we did quickly. The instant ease of a vacation – it’s a good thing.

The trick is how to keep this feeling of freedom, how to capture the ephemeral magic of such a moment. Sometimes I think that as soon as you attempt to do so, you lose it. Instead, I’ll hold it loosely in my heart, uncaged and free, and ever-ready to remind, especially when the winds of winter begin to blow.

The late afternoon sun lends drama and light to the sand, revealing its own sea of tiny particles echoing the nearby ocean. Undulating domes of the sand mirror and mimic the undulating domes of the water. Nature loves her little winks, and so do I.

This landscape of sand offers a multitude of microcosms, and an endless array of abstract forms. If you inspect things closer, if you get down on the beach and peer intently on one small patch of sand, you’ll see how the particles open up, how varied and different each grain of sand is from another.

Some are large and ragged, some are small and smooth, and there is gradation in between and beyond. From pieces that are large enough to be considered pebbles to particles so fine that they can be thrown in the air like smoke, the infinite possibility of the world can be found in the smallest patch of beach.

We make our own mark in the world, mostly in fleeting and temporal form, and mostly unseen. The pattern that a flock of seagulls makes in the sand is just as beautiful, and lasting, as anything I’ve ever created. We are, the lot of us, grand and insignificant at once.

She is a seductive sea, drawing one in with the innocuous first approach of her gentle lapping at the shore. She licks timidly at the toes, gradually pulling one into her realm with insistence and delicious disorientation. By the time you realize what is happening, she’s shackled your ankles with the warmth of her salty breath. In the midday warmth, her touch is cool and refreshing, so you tread a little deeper. Shards of light bounce off her surface, sunlight and bubbles and swirls of a mist and haze so entrancing you easily lose your bearings, willingly and gleefully.

She plays with you at first, gently rolling you in her advancing power. Churning sand and stone, shells and seaweed, she tosses everything into a giddy melange of salty fun. The delighted squeals of fellow swimmers give call-back to the seagulls, who alternately soar and dive, their sight sharp and instantly able to pick out a meal darting about in the water.

As the day progresses and the tide comes in, she gains in energy and might. Conspiring with the moon, she lets loose a series of escalating waves, pounding the shore with her power and slamming her weight down upon the sand. For the first time, one gets a hint of her fury.

As she reached her strong arm onto the sand in a ripped curl of a wave, I extended my arm in unison and let her pull me in. But as much as she could embrace, she could just as easily and flippantly thrash you about, tumbling and destroying any sense of equilibrium or stability. She is dangerous that way, and though you may want to pause to catch your breath after she knocks you down, she will never wait. There is always another wave coming.

Taller than me, and wider than the eye can see, each onslaught is a thrilling exercise of her sovereignty, and it need not be benevolent. I get pulled down only twice in my days within her ambivalent grasp, but each time is memorably dizzying. I consider myself fairly strong and steady on my feet, but I am no match for the force of her will. Mostly, I dive into her limitless arsenal before the waves break, sliding under and skirting the pull of each wave as it gains in power. For the smaller ones I can jump above the gathering rolls. But every once in a while I’m in the perfect spot for her to capture me, and there is nowhere to run or jump or dive or hide, and she takes me down. There’s a thrill to such violence, a buzz to being in such close proximity to that kind of dominion.

For someone who demands complete control, I find relief and release in being tossed around like some worn-out rag doll. The ocean forces me to loosen any rigidity, to go with the grandness of her flow, and to put myself in submission to a force greater than my collective self. There is freedom in that.

On our second day by the sea, I’d moved on to my second book. We flagged down our usual gentleman to set up the umbrella, and just in time, as the sun was even hotter. It made the water feel wonderful. Once we got out beyond the pounding waves at the shore (and they were big in Delaware) the undulating rise and fall of the water had a hypnotic, dream-like effect. We swam in that sweet spot, buoyed by the salty water, and pulled by the sun and moon with their own enchanted influence.

Playing in the surf, I’m reminded of childhood beach scenes, of crashing with the waves into the sand and feeling the churning water as it deposits sand in my shorts. Shells and stones occasionally interrupt the smooth floor, and perhaps an errant crab veers dangerously close, but I don’t dwell in any one specific spot for too long.

Back on the beach, and basking in the warmth of another sea – this one of sand – I close my eyes and fall into a light sleep. Beside me, someone’s iPod is playing ‘Dream A Little Dream of Me’ and I drift deliciously into a sunny, surreal mode of leisurely existence.

On this day, the sea was playful, but generally calm. As the day advances, the tide comes in, and with it all the power of the moon is unleashed. We won’t feel such might until the next afternoon. For now, it is a distant pounding, a deceptively buffered attack that is pleasing and peaceful from afar.

SWEET DREAMS TILL SUNBEAMS FIND YOU

SWEET DREAMS THAT LEAVE ALL WORRIES BEHIND YOU

BUT IN YOUR DREAMS WHATEVER THEY BE

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME…

My love affair with the beach was only rekindled a few short years ago, on a trip to Ogunquit when, after years of waiting, the weather finally smiled upon us and we were granted a hot, glorious stretch of days on Ogunquit Beach at the height of summer. Before that, it had been decades since I enjoyed the sand and the surf, and I’d almost forgotten how they feed the soul and rejuvenate the senses. The waves at Rehoboth Beach were much bigger, the undertow much stronger, and the might of the ocean more in evidence. But before going in, we had to stake our claim to some shade.

On this first day, the temperature soars to 97 degrees – normally unbearable for a delicate constitution – but on the shore things are cooled by the great body of water before us. The northeast coast, especially Maine, is all but impossible to enter thanks to such cold, cutting temperatures. Even as a kid, when nothing was too cold or hot, the water was too frigid to enjoy. Here, the water is a relatively balmy 75 degrees, perfect for a refreshing splash after baking in the mid-to-high 90’s all morning.

We sat beneath a large umbrella, and I sprawled out on a beach towel and began reading. The gentle pounding of the surf and the occasional cry of a seagull were the soundtrack before the crowds arrived, and I turned the pages of the first of three books I brought for the occasion.

At last, a proper vacation.

The beautifully-barked crape myrtle trees are blooming in bright fuchsia and white as we drive into the town. A little more than five hours away from Albany, Rehoboth Beach might as well have been another world, so deliciously different was it in its climate and hardiness zone. (The first things I notice upon entering a new place are the plants and trees growing there, and it’s especially thrilling when I get to see more tender plants flourishing in the ground because the winters are less severe than those in the Northeast.) Today that means crape myrtle – a bush or small tree that rivals the bougainvillea for hot pink color, but provides a hardier countenance for colder climates (just not as cold as upstate New York, sadly).

Sandy sidewalks lead to the boardwalk and the beach, and we take a quick stroll to get our bearings. Our days here will reach the mid to upper 90’s, and before we make it to the sea, I’m as yet unimpressed by the hordes of tourists and their children running along the cheesy fried food offerings of the boardwalk. I’m not convinced that this is where I wanted to spend my birthday.

Our hotel room won’t be ready for a few hours, so we take our time wandering along Wilmington, Rehoboth and Baltimore, before finally settling on a lunch place that offers mostly Mexican fare. A salty-rimmed margarita greets the afternoon of my 41^st anniversary here on earth, and I relax into the circumstances. The town opens up a bit when that happens, and by the time we check in and step out onto our little balcony, I’ve left behind the cares and concerns of the office and my upstate life.

After settling in, I make a quick exploratory shopping run, passing by the beach again. The day is hot, but we have dinner reservations, and the beach will have to wait. I travel along the edge of sand, glimpsing the magnificence obscured by gently waving sea grass. Tomorrow we will be there, and the promise of an even-hotter day makes the ocean all the more inviting. Tonight, we dine and sleep, and I put my 41^st birthday to bed in gratefully quiet fashion.