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Observations of a Coastal Wanderer continued. Walking down the beach clearly shows how the songs of gulls overhead now replace the screams of playing children. The acrid smell of aloed bodies is replaced by the pure smell of salt water mixing with the salted air. Even the waves of the ocean, which during the summer seemed to be pounding their way to the beach in the hopes of dislodging all who dare to step more than knee-deep, now seem to be enjoying their own sense of serenity by ever so gently touching the newly vacant beaches. The people of this season also have changed. Not that the same people aren't seen on the summer's beaches enjoying the warmth and excitement of that season. But, the bicyclist is not hurrying down the beach to be the first to arrive at his destination. He is now sitting by the beach, on a bench, enjoying the eternity of the ocean. You can almost see through his eyes and feel that he is not even thinking of the fun of summer's past, but is experiencing his own emotions mixing with the emotions of the ocean. The slow minded boy, whom most everyone feared and made fun of during the summer months, easily joins the bicyclist in his losing of self. Of course, the men and women of the rocks are seen again straight backed throughout the length of the beach, standing like statues on their rock-like pedestals. Different seasons or times mean nothing to them. Even the old, who during the summer were sometimes pushed aside to make room for the energy of youth, now set the pace, staring down into the sands of the beach, contemplating the sands of their lost time. The very young walk with the old more this time of year. They play the part of a sponge soaking all the knowledge that let the old get old. The youth are so young and the old seem so old that is very difficult, especially on the beach, to tell them apart. The other inhabitants of the beach seem to trust us more this time of year. The sand birds inch their way to a closer more fearless view. Even the butterflies and white moths fearlessly circle around our heads. The colors of this season have forever been written about and are pictured in pastels, watercolors, oils or photographs. On the beaches you can't only see the green of the ocean with its frosty white caps. You can feel and smell how perfectly combined the colors are. How the browns of the sands go perfectly with the deep blues and grays of the sky. The morning sky takes a different form this time of year. Its colors complement the sea's so perfectly that one seem to be a continuation of the other. The clouds appear to form holes at the end of massive tunnels, sneaking a peak at a hopeful heaven in the sky. One particular morning a small sailboat broke this consistency by daring to float between the sea and the sky. I wonder if they knew how close they were in attaining that light at the end of all of our tunnels. The quiet is the most intense feeling this time of year. It is so extreme that the rumbling of chain saws and the banging of hammers can't even hope to overwhelm the quiet of the season. Even the sound of my footsteps, as I walk down the beach, seem to naturally belong to the serenity of the ocean. The summer months expose people's souls to anyone interested in observing them. The off season demonstrates the natural beauty of the coast. To me the most exciting observation I can make is becoming part of a coastal storm. They always start with a lull. Not your ordinary quiet, but a time so quiet you can't even hear the gulls or the wind blowing through the trees. It is a time when all those who live on the coast walk to the water's edge to watch the low tide go ever lower, in preparation for the waters destined to explode on the beach. The people are not the only ones who flock to the beach in the lull before the storm. The gulls also come to a collective realization that they must fly to the beach in preparation. They are more courageous than their human counterparts, landing right on the surf, staring into the water en masse, like members of a religious cult awaiting their messiah. The impending storm toys with the emotions of its observers, first by blowing gentle streams of fresh air that stir recollections of the gentler summer breezes. Then the ocean shows its first white frothing heads. Soon the sea is a bubbling cauldron of milky white foam and spray. The air around the few observers left explodes with the sparks of mist. The wind forces the viewers to squint into what has always been and will always be as long as life can exist on this planet. The gulls at this point pray to some gull God in hopes that mercy will keep them from being swept into the depths of the now violent ocean. At the peak of the storm, the skies and the sea become one, torn in half by the foaming waves and violent water. Nothing else exists. Nothing else dares to exist. If there was ever a time when beauty and violence co-exist, the coastal storm is the pinnacle of both. The storm also puts the dreams of the observer into perspective. The day-to-day reality of life seems so desperately insignificant when compared to such violent majesty. Yet the strength of nature, as reflected in the storm, also inspires a sense that anything is possible, even achievable. The beauty of the storm is that no one ever sees it to the end. Most viewers grow to cold or tired and head for shelter. The only thing that remains is the stark, gray tone that hangs in the air and over the ocean. It's a color that has never been successfully reproduced. Like a sunset over the volcanoes of Hawaii or the blinding white of a snowstorm in the Mount Washington Valley, the gray of a coastal storm registers directly on the mind as a feeling, a sensation of power. Rather than a visual stimulus that can be tucked away for later use. There are many reason why people yearn to be by the ocean: the serenity, the perpetually fresh sea breezes, or the hypnotic sound of the waves striking the beach. I love living here for one simple reason. I am allowed to observe. The End |
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Jim Fabiano is a teacher and a writer living in York, Maine, USA |