Catadromy

There’s something so anodyne for me about being at the beach. I set up an encampment, complete with chair, beach blanket, water, spray bottle, music and a book (which I almost never open); settle in and watch the water lap the sand.

At times, the heat will get to me and I’ll go into the water, dodging the accumulation of small shells and bits of sharp coral that wash up in the unceasing waves. The first few steps into the water are always the hardest, especially when I’ve been sitting on the shore for a while and I’m overheated from the sun. Gradually I wade into the sea, until I gather up my courage and duck beneath the ocean. Emerging, I wipe the salt water from my eyes and begin to swim parallel to the shore, enjoying the cool water flowing along my sunburnt skin.

Out here, among the waves, it’s possible to be alone and away from the mundanities of the everyday. Nothing bothers me. There are no daily annoyances. No phone calls. No emails. Just me, the endless sky, the limitless Pacific Ocean.  I paddle back and forth, using a variety of strokes, sometimes on my back, sometimes not, always at one with the water and the sky.

Then I swim back to shore, go back to my encampment and the cycle begins anew.

My favorite time of day at the beach is around 4:30, when the beach empties, the air temperature drops a bit and the sun sparkles on the water.  Sometimes, a sailboat will run across the water, dodging in and out of the sparkles, creating an image in my mind’s eye that I carry with me.

There’s a cycle, a rhythm to being at the beach. People come, people go. The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out. The sun rises and sets. Sitting there, I feel at once a part of the Universe and entirely insignificant. I ponder the imponderable. I float high, among the clouds, soaring on an updraft, swimming through the air, as if it was the water beneath. I turn off my mind and just watch the water as it moves along the shoreline.

And I sit there on the sand and take it all in.