By the Sea

maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea

E.E. Cummings

The day was a kiln, and the ground a parched clay platter, and everyone moved slowlyif they moved at all, but we had a plan in place. We would pack a makeshift picnic and go down to the beach with friends in the late afternoon, and we could walk by the shore or go for a swim or just find a spot to sit and talk, and we would stay there until dusk, or as long as we wanted.

It was a simple plan and it came to pass. Marc, tall and bearded, grabbed his camera and tripod and immediately went off for a solitary walk, looking at the estuary that washes out from the canyon, watching the waves, squinting at sea life with an intentness and curiosity I remembered fondly from the days when we were teachers together. Others went blissfully swimming or splashed around in the surf.

A breeze came up, and distinct currents of coolness rushed through the air, as refreshing as rivers. Sometimes you could take two steps over and suddenly find yourself in a little patch of cool air and pause there for a moment, almost sipping it.

On the bluff above the beach, a black steer stood unsettlingly close to the edge. To the west, towards Pt. Conception, the sky began its long slow sequence of dusky pink and orange, intensified by the haze of distant fires.

I put a fine blue cloth down on a weathered redwood table and we began to unpack our repast. There were bottles of Gewürztraminer, spicy and chilled, and cold cans of Bud, and for juvenile palates like mine, some sort of sweet fruit soda. There were deviled eggs and garlic-studded pork loin, chips and dips from Trader Joe’s, mushroom turnovers, slices of honeydew. 

“Does anyone have any interest in locks?” asked Julie. Locks? I thought. Doors, yes, windows, yes, but locks? And of course she pulled out a chunk of salted salmon, lox that she had prepared herself, and we proceeded to eat, appetites unbolted, doors ajar, conversation humming, a sense of well-being.

There was talk of brown bears eating nectarines and berries, of an oak forest reclaiming a certain apple orchard, of an Indian cave in the mountains. Kit andBeverly came by, fleeing the heat of the backcountry, with their laptop and a movie in their car. We talked of school days and paradigm shifts, retirement and disability, the places we’d like to travel to and the pleasure of being right here.

Then came a shout from another Julie, who had heard some sort of rattling noise coming from the front of her truck and thought there was a snake inside. Everyone approached the vehicle, some armed with sticks and ready to gingerly poke around, and we saw the origin of the sound: a dragonfly caught inside the headlight. Monte reached in and helped the creature to extricate itself, and it shot suddenly into the air, bursting forth, erupting into freedom, and we all looked up with a-h-h-s and awe, and there was a second dragonfly in the air that seemed to have been hovering and waiting, and the two of them sailed off together.

It was a beautiful moment. Fellini-esque, perhaps, but beautiful. Then we settled down again to watch the sunset and the water’s shine and the beginning of the night. We were a ragtag group, graying and balding, broken and repaired but not quite good as new. We were people past our prime, retired or tired, still trying to figure things out, still capable of being surprised.

Jupiter rose brightly and the broken bowl moon shattered into luminous pieces that floated on the shimmering sea.