The After 6 Secret Beach Society

I live in the land of sun worshipers. Lots of body exposure and deep, ruddy tans are de riguer. I do not care to share so much of my body: parts of it no longer stay in the right places. I've also lost count of the basal cells, the legacy of the days when I bared my midriff and took to my beach towel with baby oil with iodine, Sun-In for my hair and my pink transistor radio. Remember those? I also make no apologies for white legs in July.

I still love going down to the beach, and my husband and I have discovered a jewel of a time to go. When G. gets home from work, or Sunday afternoons, we head there about 6 p.m., as we did yesterday.

The sun has mostly given up by then, except for the exquisite, and changing light that comes at the end of the day. This is especially showy at The Point at Emerald Isle. The Point is the western-most tip of Emerald Isle, where the sound meets the ocean. It is a wide, open, expanse of sand, and it is all-about nature and the sea.

Yesterday, wind clouds raced over the ocean in magnificent swirls, which turned pink and purple with the disappearing sun.

The temperature is perfect, and the breeze cools you and erases the frustration of a hot and humid summer afternoon.

I like the fellow members of the After Six Club (doesn't that sound swanky?) The hot bodies are off showering for night time activities, and the beach is lightly populated. Families bring little kids to dip their toes in the water. Couples of a certain level of maturity walk hand-in-hand, and tweenagers, too young for the night time activities, chase each other for one last, independent frolic.

Last night a family came to fish in the little inlet where we had chosen to swim. The father and daughter worked together, throwing a cast net for bait. They worked at this for quite some time, with so-so results, and yet, they spent that time, working together, deeply involved in their task and conversation.

G. and I dunk our bodies in the warm, shallow water, and paddle around a bit in our slow ways. I feel confident at this depth, because I can stand up when I splash water in my nose. I lie back, totally supported by that salty, sloshy medium, and look at the sky. I have a busy mind. I'm usually always on to the next thing, but floating like this is a short cut to relaxation.

Chili Dog, who has a bit of space to go off leash, plops along at the edge of the water. She is suspicious of any depth that requires swimming.

When I was young, I was a seeker of beach, boys (Beach Boys), and rock and roll. I would have turned up my nose at the After 6 club. I remember once arguing passionately that serenity was basically for losers. I was in the 8th grade and, what, maybe 14 years old? I foresaw big things in my future.

I'm ok with that - trying for big things. I'd still like to make some of those happen, but I'm for quiet times as well. It's nourishing to soak yourself in a salt bath of serenity at the end of the day, and it gives you energy to go after other things when Monday rolls around. 

The After 6 club is not such a secret. It's there for everyone, and I'm thinking that people will find their way to that end of the island in due time. Maybe that's why it's called The Point.

(I realize that my last two posts are essentially about doing nothing. Hmm? Maybe I'm getting too good at it.)

 

Summer Porch

Picture this: A shady, screened porch: overhead fan ticking lazily. Puffs of afternoon breezes to puncture the stillness. Me, on a comfy old futon with big pillows which smell of sunshine and weather. Chili Dog sleeps away, curled against my legs.

I have a book and good intentions, but both worked their way out of reach not long after settling in. A nap - no, make that a Sunday, summer afternoon nap - beckons, but first that moment of drowsy stillness, when all of life's business slips away with my book and good intentions.

A butterfly, floating from a red zinnia to a yellow one, appears on the inside of my eyelids. My still sunny backyard fades to sounds and sensations. It's now that I wish I'd learned from my parents to identify bird songs.  They sing and squawk and cackle and call from the live oak thicket and from my neighbors' feeder. Cantankerous crows caw, caw, caw, and only they sound seriously engaged on this summer afternoon.

I hear the wind, as well as feel it, as it rustles the pines and the spreading bush cherries along the fence. An airplane lazes overhead. I half hear a tinkle from the tiny wind chime attached to the fan chain. "Desultory" comes to mind, or should I bother to search for a better word?  I'd like a sip of my melting ice tea, if it weren't just out of reach.

(At this point I move my legs, and Chili, not wishing to be disturbed, jumps to the floor and flops on her side, stretching her full length on the cool cement.)

I have insomnia, and one of the worst symptoms has been the loss of my ability to take a Sunday afternoon nap. It's somewhat better now, and I revel in the delicious prospect of complete idleness. It's a treat I like to give myself. The world slows a little through the drugged haze of half-sleep and precious cat naps. The "shoulds" take a break for a while.

As Bill Waterson (creator of Calvin and Hobbs) said, "There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want." I read that somewhere. I may think of where in due time, or maybe not.