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The Precipice

Donald Reed Greenwood

    I feel the firm, cool, wet sand; the gentle waves lapping at my ankles, and hear the incessant, pleading cry of the gulls. I’m standing at the waters’ edge, gazing out on the endless ocean prairie. It welcomes me with a light, refreshing off shore breeze. The July sun is only moments removed from the relentlessness of its heat, which without permission, baked the conscripted expanses of the beach. Only sunbathers, in all their masochistic revelry, could possibly find that habitat truly enjoyable. Mercifully, the sun has finally conceded to the circadian cycle of the Earth’s rotation.
    I have never understood the fascination of exposing the human body, prone on a blanket in the intense midday of summer, clothed in bathing apparel designed to produce those ridiculous epidermal lines separating exposure from protection, sunglasses shielding the eyes, with heat radiating from the baking sand, lathered tip to toe, all in pursuit of that narcissistic, functionally useless perfect tan. I see no holy excellence in the endeavor.
    To me, the activity is beyond unpleasant; nothing more than tempting nature with the possibility of basal or squamous cell cancer, or even malignant melanoma. If that attitude would sound both clinical, fatalistic and petulant to some, so be it.
    The balance of this granular real estate was recently claimed by those would-be sun worshipers, crowded together under flashily colored parasols, eating over-chilled sandwiches and drinking canned beverages plucked from portable Colemans, chatting aimlessly and loudly, occasionally daring the ocean for a brief dip to flee from the heat, or by the young adults addicted to endless dives under the breaking waves, who never seem to surrender to that heat and the blinding gaze of the sun.
    Why do I even come here? I could suppose the reason is the “now”; the time when the masses of beach robots have packed up their baggage of towels, umbrellas, cumbersome coolers and partially devoured summer romance novels. Some of them had young children in tow, with all the clutter of inexpensive plastic beach paraphernalia, necessary for digging in the dampened sand; those castle labors now softly eroding. The lifeguards have flown their perches, ceased the constant shrill of whistling at the middle schoolers venturing too close to the rocky shore break, and who are now inhabiting the local watering holes, drinking cold, two dollar Lite beers. Only those who enjoy an afternoon stroll, as the heat eases, inhabit the sandy landscape. They casually wander through the calmed, gentle waves, stopping upon occasion, encountering a rare, unbroken shell, savoring the discovery, while enjoying the sensation of bare feet on a firm, comfortable and forgiving surface. As they pass me, we exchange friendly hand gestures or perfunctory greetings, but the encounters never evolve into the pleasantries of aimless chatter.
    This seaside spot, this time of day, with a midsummer sky abundant with passing puffs of cumulous cotton candy, reflecting the angular light of a receding sun, and the gentle, cycling shush of ocean waves flowing up the sand, then retreating, offer an experience that deserves to be embraced. I don’t deny that I enjoy it. But is that enough? Is that why I’m here?
    What is the real reason? How do I mine the depths of my soul for that precious metal? Is that why I perform the hajj; to think and reflect? I simply don’t know. All that I know is that I am drawn faithfully when nature offers the opportunity. And, that I’ve done so each season, since......when?
    I can’t remember. Have I repeated the cycle for five years, ten years, or like the lapping of the waves, as long as the oceans have existed?
    A journey begins with that first step. Perhaps my seaside pilgrimages are born of indecision. Someday, maybe it will be tomorrow; I’ll know, and move one foot forward, out into that vast, liquid prairie.
    Once, we were all there.

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