The Beach

I have arrived at a new revelation in this life, and, as revelations are wont to do, it is difficult to describe the moment of clarity itself, but conceptual warrior that I am, I shall  embark on a journey to elaborate, with metaphor, my trusty stead and confidante, by my side.

I now understand what it means to go to the beach on a day when it is too cold to swim.

Growing up land locked, the concept of a beach held a position of reverence in my mind. Seeing water without being able to see the opposite shore was a bit of a thrill for me all the way through my late teens, whereupon I went through a serious bout of moodiness and the only things I found thrilling were drinking, rugby, and touching boobs. I remember one cool summer afternoon amid the flat a's of rural Minnesota, gazing out over what turned out to be Lake Michigan and thinking that water must go on forever. Apparently, I had never heard of Canada.

I went on to date a number of beach folk, and, I should say, east coast beach folk because I do believe there is a difference. Lovers from Biddiford Pool, Maine to significant others who summered in The Hamptons for whom la playa was never further away than their Nantucket Reds or a glass of iced Chardonnay. Beach for them was less of an adventure and more of a given--a home rather than a destination. It occured to them but not to me that one could go to the beach as you were, sans coolers, towels, sunscreen, volleyballs, mar-gay-ritas. You could just go for a little while and listen, even when it was too cold to swim.

"Why would you go to the beach if you couldn't swim?" I thought. "That's like planning a trip to DisneyWorld during a thunderstorm when all the rides are closed."

I took a meeting yesterday in Santa Monica, which is something I do, and for those of us not so well versed in Los Angeles topography, that means I was right next to the beach. I donned my running shoes and a Jameson hoodie and went for a jog. On the beach. When it was too cold to swim. With the sun about to set.

Halfway through my jog I stopped to sit on a collection of rocks beside gulls and crashing waves and watched the sun go down. I should mention that I have a similar anxiety with sunsets as I do with beaches: a sort of New Year's Eve-esque fear that I'm not making the most of it and everyone else is having a better sunset than I am. I sat on the rocks and thunk. Let thoughts pass through my mind, casually reminding myself that I should really be meditating because I've been meaning to do more of that, sat... nam... but not really even trying very hard to do nothing.

And I watched part of the sunset. No self-imposed pressure to stay until the pink and golden orb broke the horizon, just watching it until I had watched it enough.

I didn't dip my toes into the water. I lingered for as long as I cared to linger, and then I got in my car and drove away.

It wasn't a beach day, it was a day I happened to spend about an hour and a half on a leisurely jog with a little bit of sunset.

Once home, I closed my eyes and gathered in my hands the memories of all my beach days, each one sizable and heavy, adding to the pile this tiny little moment, which, strangely, was enough. All the days I didn't make the trek to Coney Island or to my lover's house in Long Island because it was too far. There was too much expectation. Who has a whole day to waste when there is so much on the line?

But I live next to the beach now. I can go there anytime I want. Even when it is too cold to swim.