Sandy Beaches
Is there really an extra layer of fat that makes it possible for girls to stay in the water for such a long time? That's what I was told when we went to Jones Beach near our Long Island home during summer vacation. My sister would spend hours in the water with her friend and neighbor Arlene. It used to bother me when my cousin Kenneth would call Dorette "Chubby", using a nickname she'd acquired as an infant that was no longer appropriate. That was unfair, then, but now, sixty years later, it doesn't nearly describe the large, overweight woman she's become. I resemble my mother, truly an ectomorph in her maturity, while Dorette resembles our father in stature. But I've lost my tolerance for cold water and rarely swim now, even though I loved the ocean of our childhood.
The waves were what I enjoyed the most. They often appeared towering, immense, and came curling and crashing down on me if I miss-timed my dive beneath the swell. What a challenge as I stood there defying the next assault. Sometimes there was nothing to do but accept the punishing, rolling, sand-abrasive onslaught from the fallen crest. But even more satisfying was knifing through the breaking wave into the calm space beyond. Floating and paddling out there alone was peaceful and nourishing as the sun warmed me in the clear green water.
When I tired of the inaction I'd turn and watch seaward for the next swell. Then I'd strike out for the shore, timing my stroke to bring me in with the crest of the wave that would shoot me through the surf up onto the sandy shore and then leave me stranded and filled with delight. Before the next wave came lapping at my feet I'd be up and running back into the water, repeating again and again that call to challenge the awesome power of the ocean. If I got caught in a nasty undertow it could be very frightening and I'd come out to crawl into the warm sand or wrap myself in a blanket and cover myself over in the quiet darkness of warm stillness.
I could spend hours lying there, tired and satisfied. Dorette and Arlene would be out in the water, running and splashing no matter how hard the wind blew or how cool the water was. They'd be blue with cold and covered with goose bumps when they finally came out to towel themselves dry. They were always together. For some reason none of my playmates ever spent much time at the beach. So, when I got tired of just lying around I'd go off down the beach, walking and walking along the water, noticing things at my feet or off on the horizon, always alone, with ocean waves calling and echoing over the sand.
I got to know Jones Beach quite well over the years. Arlene's father was a lifeguard so there was always an opportunity to get a ride down to the beach. The guards had surfboards, big heavy things that they'd push out beyond the waves and then paddle back and forth to amuse themselves during slack hours. There were no fancy surfers to watch in those times, but it was glorious to see a board return like a bowspit on a wave, carrying its orange and black clad occupant straight for the wooden stand that was home for the day.
When the afternoon neared its end the girls would undoubtedly be back in the water, delaying as long as possible the calls for departure. I'd be hot and crusted with sand and salt. Enough of the water for me by then. How could they keep it up? They had a special energy that I'd never be able to tap. I noticed many years later when we swam in the Mediterranean or spent days in the Medoc dunes on the French side of the Atlantic that it was the same for my wife and daughters. Hour after hour in the water, so much so that they could be called water-rats. Eventually the sun got to me so that I'd have to seek shade and coolness. I'd find a spot of quiet and stillness while still feeling the surge and swell of the water and hear the roar and splashing of the sea. It couldn't be just that layer of fat that fitted them so well for the water, could it? It was there on those sandy beaches that I began to feel that there was something really different that separated us. I still don't know just what that might be.
The waves were what I enjoyed the most. They often appeared towering, immense, and came curling and crashing down on me if I miss-timed my dive beneath the swell. What a challenge as I stood there defying the next assault. Sometimes there was nothing to do but accept the punishing, rolling, sand-abrasive onslaught from the fallen crest. But even more satisfying was knifing through the breaking wave into the calm space beyond. Floating and paddling out there alone was peaceful and nourishing as the sun warmed me in the clear green water.
When I tired of the inaction I'd turn and watch seaward for the next swell. Then I'd strike out for the shore, timing my stroke to bring me in with the crest of the wave that would shoot me through the surf up onto the sandy shore and then leave me stranded and filled with delight. Before the next wave came lapping at my feet I'd be up and running back into the water, repeating again and again that call to challenge the awesome power of the ocean. If I got caught in a nasty undertow it could be very frightening and I'd come out to crawl into the warm sand or wrap myself in a blanket and cover myself over in the quiet darkness of warm stillness.
I could spend hours lying there, tired and satisfied. Dorette and Arlene would be out in the water, running and splashing no matter how hard the wind blew or how cool the water was. They'd be blue with cold and covered with goose bumps when they finally came out to towel themselves dry. They were always together. For some reason none of my playmates ever spent much time at the beach. So, when I got tired of just lying around I'd go off down the beach, walking and walking along the water, noticing things at my feet or off on the horizon, always alone, with ocean waves calling and echoing over the sand.
I got to know Jones Beach quite well over the years. Arlene's father was a lifeguard so there was always an opportunity to get a ride down to the beach. The guards had surfboards, big heavy things that they'd push out beyond the waves and then paddle back and forth to amuse themselves during slack hours. There were no fancy surfers to watch in those times, but it was glorious to see a board return like a bowspit on a wave, carrying its orange and black clad occupant straight for the wooden stand that was home for the day.
When the afternoon neared its end the girls would undoubtedly be back in the water, delaying as long as possible the calls for departure. I'd be hot and crusted with sand and salt. Enough of the water for me by then. How could they keep it up? They had a special energy that I'd never be able to tap. I noticed many years later when we swam in the Mediterranean or spent days in the Medoc dunes on the French side of the Atlantic that it was the same for my wife and daughters. Hour after hour in the water, so much so that they could be called water-rats. Eventually the sun got to me so that I'd have to seek shade and coolness. I'd find a spot of quiet and stillness while still feeling the surge and swell of the water and hear the roar and splashing of the sea. It couldn't be just that layer of fat that fitted them so well for the water, could it? It was there on those sandy beaches that I began to feel that there was something really different that separated us. I still don't know just what that might be.
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posted by David at 1:18 PM
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