One problem, though—by the time I was able to get away from work around 5:00 or so, there wasn’t much of a beach to go to. The tide was coming in (high at 6:00), and most of the sandy beach would be covered by water. In fact, I got down to the beach just before high tide. But lucky for me, it wasn’t an exceptionally high tide that day, and even at the highest point there were patches of sand every so often. To make my way along, I drew upon childhood skills and memories, wading through shallow water and climbing along the network of logs that decorates the shore.
The beach is a different world when you are walking the logs. The usual beach profile includes the logs alongside the bank, then layers of sand and rocks (depending on where you are and what the tide has washed in), and sometimes a stretch of mudflats when the tide is out, and finally the water lapping the shore. The atmosphere is open and expansive, offering plenty of space to walk and run (for people and dogs alike). But when the tide comes in, your world narrows to a more confined space, a matter of yards between the bank and the water, often shadowed by overhanging trees and branches.
If I were younger I would play the game we used to play, allowing myself to walk only on logs without touching sand or water, climbing and jumping between them. “There are sharks in the water!” we used to say, to add to the challenge. (Although there may be an occasional dog shark in the bay, sharks swarming along the shoreline has never been a problem.) But in my adulthood I spurned the challenge, walking on the logs where I chose to (or where I had no choice), and splashing though the water or strolling the islands of sand when I wanted.
My balancing ability, honed by repetitions of the “tree” pose in yoga class, is pretty good, and I had little worry of falling as I walked along the narrow logs. But my balance skills are perhaps not quite as good as when I was a child, or at least my fear of falling is greater, because my knees wobbled a little whenever I got too high off the ground! So I (mostly) stayed off the higher logs that were suspended over water.
The hillside is covered blackberry bramble bushes, and in the late summer the berries are ripe and juicy. While these wild growing blackberry vines are a menace in the garden, on the beach they are a treat, both to the birds and to passersby wanting to pick a juicy purple snack. I climbed my way along the beach, stopping every so often to pick and eat handfuls of warm blackberries (appreciating the high fiber content of their seediness). Once last summer I brought a bowl down to the beach and picked probably a quart or more, which I took home and froze to eat with yoghurt or oatmeal. But today I just picked and ate, until boredom and satiety forced me on my way.
At White Rock (a large white-painted rock about three quarters of a mile down the beach, which has been a landmark for as long as I can remember), the tide was in far enough that my only route past was over the logs and trees surrounding White Rock. It’s a fairly easy path, though, because there is a wooden platform, perhaps a washed up dock or raft, which bridges the area behind White Rock. For the adult me it was an easy scramble past. For the child in me, or the memories of the child I was, it was a tempting stage, a pirate ship or perhaps Huck Finn’s river raft, poised over the lapping waves. I did not stop to sail the imaginary seas (or river), but I thought enviously of the fun we would have had there thirty years ago.
By this time the tide had turned, and more stretches of beach were accessible. I made my way toward Mission Beach (another quarter of a mile or so on), alternating between my path of logs and sand. When I approached Mission Beach I walked as far as I could along the bulkhead lined beach, until I reached a point where there was no more open beach. I took that as a sign that it was time to turn around and head home. Since the hour was approaching 7:00, it seemed like a good time to start back anyway, before it started to get dark. I had walked about a mile and a quarter, and had the same distance to return.
On the way back I kept more to the beach, walking briskly on the soft sand and rocks. I was no longer tempted by blackberries or imaginary ships—I wanted to get home and have dinner. The adventure was ending and reality beckoned. I reached the beach house and began climbing the stairs as the setting sun turned the sky pink and gold over the water. Perhaps tomorrow would be another beautiful late summer day.
