I gaze at the horizon, where the water meets the sky, and think of all the times in my life I have done this. Each unique, sometimes alone and sometimes with others, each making a mark on the yardstick of life.
I remember skating on Lake St. Claire, out to where the snow recedes and the ice is dark and patchy, where we would punch a hole in the ice and put canned peas on our hooks to catch sunfish, perch, sheep head, and, occasionally, largemouth bass. A landscape made of grays, dark gray meeting light gray with a sharp line dividing them. It’s always sobering how flat it is. I can jump around on this yardstick to other places, other people, but with a similar backdrop where sky meets water.
Like Florida at Easter at Sandy Shoes, a three story motel on the beach in Fort Lauderdale: pale green, white shutters, pink letters, umbrellas. A put-put course in front of the sand, and the water lay beyond; my family and the Kushners planted around the pool; Johnny and I having to wear long sleeves because we had blisters on our arms and backs from too much sun exposure. The hot pain could never stop us. We would get another diving mask and flippers, or another Styrofoam surfboard, or rubber raft, and stay out until sunset, our fathers yelling at us to come in.
It’s the same backdrop with the men in the sand with the hermit crabs, numbers painted on their shells, betting on which one would make it outside the circle first.
The reoccurring backdrop of sunset at the beach, always different, always the same; a place to recognize time passing, remembering old friends; Mark and Patricia at Point Reyes, Greg and Libby in Santa Barbara, Jane and Joe on Whidbey Island, and dozens of picnics, birthdays, anniversaries, memorials.
Perhaps it’s because we came from the sea, or because we are 90% water, that we are drawn to the water’s edge. We swim in the sea perhaps to be part of it again. We want to see the sun set or rise, we trust without much thought it will join us there. We stare, we meditate, we acknowledge ourselves and our lives. We let the sense of time passing come in and through us. The world stands still. We hold our breath as the sun touches the horizon. We have seen this before and it still seems like the first time. We can’t help but look, anticipate what we know will happen. Perhaps we’re mourning our own death now, gradually accepting, trying to go back to where we came from, like drops forming a puddle, coming together, seeking itself for recognition, acceptance, knowledge, certainty, as the last little edge of the corona drops below the sea.
