Lana Hechtman Ayers Beach Walk Some people walk the beach as if it’s a job, striding along the shore with military rigor, head unswiveling, straight ahead, toward some finite goal of distance or steps taken. I’d rather stroll the beach slowly, my mind taking the time to spin, look in every direction— skyward, sandward, seaward, sunward, cloudward, birdward, duneward, horizonward. I don’t want to miss a single gull flap, or wave crest, or the grey pebble shaped like an egg. I need to inhale lungfuls of salt air, push my bare feet around, mounding little sand hills for no reason at all. Breezily, or nearly still, I need to see the movie of cumulus clouds sailing off for distant lands, observe the perpetual tide coming in, receding, coming back again. Broken shells are like breadcrumbs left by eons of time, reminding us how brief this beauty. Some days, long whips of seaweed tangle boulders amongst the sea-worn roots of ancient trees where we may rest and listen to the sea’s hallowed voice— singing with soughs and susurrus, the perfect parlance of patience. Tomorrow, I will will myself to go even slower, stay late, as late in the day as possible, even if the beach is only in my own mind, for breathing this deeply is a gift in these sheltered-in-place times.
