Two stories from the sand. One is longer than the other, the other is shorter than the one. Why two? One allowed what the other wouldn't, the other did what the one couldn't. Similar, but not really. Read them in any order, it matters not, only I recommend not to read them back-to-back. Just too much sand.
This is the shorter one, but not by much. Sort of told inside-out. Not sandsational, or even sandtastic, it's just slightly sandyllic.
*
*
For the most part, I just knew her as Beach-girl. I can't put my finger on the exact moment I first saw her. I mean, there was no memorable 'wow' moment or anything like that. In my mind, one day, she was just there.
Shoot. I need to put that another way. Like, I remember the first time I saw Scarlett Johansson in a bodysuit, now that was a 'wow' moment. I remember the movie, the theater, and even where I was sitting when I first saw her in it. Or like the first time I ever saw Theresa Hoffman. It was minutes before the second period bell rang on the first day of 9th grade. She sat in the row next to mine, one seat up, and when she turned around to look at the rest of the math class we were in, her smile, with her curly blonde hair and cute face, just lit up the room. I lost my breath. That was a 'wow' moment.
Of course, Theresa looked right through me, I was invisible to the entire school body including the teachers. Even at my 10-year reunion I couldn't find anyone there who even remembered me. Oh, well. Whatever.
Even before I knew of Beach-girl herself, I knew her dog. It was an English Black Labrador who bounded up to me on the beach to introduce himself. He was friendly and playful, using his eyes and handsome face as a tractor beam to get me to scratch him behind his soft furry ears, which I bent down and did, getting a slobbery tongue kiss on my cheek as a reward. We were friends from that very first moment on.
"Herbert! Here!" I heard from a spot on the sand about fifty feet away. That got the dog's attention. "Heel!" She ordered.
Herbert bounded off towards the woman who had her hands on her hips. "Sorry," she shouted, just above the volume of the pounding surf from the incoming tide.
"No problem," I returned. "Beautiful dog."
"Thanks," she shouted back.
With her dog now at her side, she got situated with a blanket and laid out on it. Owning her plot of sand like she belonged. And she did. From then on.
Again, I can't put my finger on exactly when, but it was probably a year, um, a year-ish after I became part of the community of 'regulars'. At least, that's how I thought of us.
The interesting thing about the regulars is that we were positioned in various places on the beach and that spot is where we all regularly returned to. I don't have any background in psychology (or is it psychiatry, I never learned the difference), but it would be interesting if someone were to do a study on humans like that. Like birds that build a nest in the same tree every year after migrating, here the regulars picked out a place on the beach and never moved anywhere else.
I picked out my spot just after I healed enough from the last hospital stay that I could manage the stairs. I liked my spot just between the cliffs and the base of the stairs, it left me a lot of opportunities to paint, sketch, or just study the things going on around me and daydream.
The cliffs were to the south of me and jutted out far enough that when the tide was in, it cut off access to the beaches further south, and to the north it was a lengthy walk to public beach access so it was a more secluded beach than most, I think. I don't really know for sure, this is the only one I ever visited.
Then when the tide would go out, the Pacific would reveal weathered boulders that children and adults alike, and sometimes even their dogs, would explore. Sometimes the surf would strike the rocks and make anyone standing on them yell out and get very wet, welcomely or not, always fun to watch. When the tide would return in full force of nature and smash against the rocks, it would make for dramatic scenes that I never tired of.
When I apply the moniker of 'regulars' to the beachgoers, it is kinder than calling us what we really were, more like hardcore squatters. Sure, there were dozens of people that came here weekly, or maybe even as much as three or four times a week, but there were a handful of us, Beach-girl included, that were here every single day. Barring rain, which didn't happen too often in Southern California.
As I mostly kept to myself, I didn't know the regulars by name. Oh, maybe some here and there.
There was Elizabeth, who I feel bad about now as I had just known her as half of the Whale Couple whose nickname I assigned to them because they were each as large as one. They were a middle-aged couple, maybe a little older, that laid out to collect the sun, unashamed by their obesity. The cute part is that they synchronized flipping over, front to back, and reverse, looking more like sea lions than whales while they turned over.
As it turned out, Elizabeth was a really sweet person. One day after about a year of me being a regular, she waddled over to see what I was painting and introduced herself. That then became a habit. She would gush over whatever I was painting or drawing, bring up the topic of the weather, and then go back to her husband's side but not before telling me the precise time of the next tide change. I stopped having to check the internet after that.
The group of regulars I knew best was a family of four that lived in the unit next to mine on the ocean-facing half of the third floor, our condominium building being just at the top of the stairs. The mom would sit in her beach chair and watch her little twin boys like a hawk. The kids would be all over the beach like miniature tornadoes and they were sometimes amusing to watch. Now and again Mom would spring from her chair and sprint down the beach, shouting out after the kids. I only saw the dad on weekends, he apparently worked a lot, but the mom was great. On the rare occasions I had to travel, she would let herself into my place with the spare key I gave her and water all my plants while I was gone.
The other regulars were cordial. We'd nod, smile, and say 'hello' to one another when we'd cross paths going to and from our plots of sand. That's my long way of reinforcing the fact that I kept mostly to myself, but that's just the way of our beach community.
There were regular dog walkers, they were the ones that just walked back and forth along the surf's edge and never settled onto the dry sand for very long. Our beach was a designated dog beach and except for the summer season, they could go leash-free. There were also the tourists, either there for the day or the ones paying an arm and a leg at one of the many rentals situated over the bluff. In the winter, the 'snowbirds' showed up in force, and these were the beach-goers that were the most curious and most frequently stopped to see what I was painting on the occasions I brought my entire kit down to the sand.
Herbert quickly went from being my friend to my very best friend. He'd never fail to come and greet me where I'd scratch him behind the ears, talk to him a little bit like he understood me, and he'd sometimes playfully run in circles around me after I pulled a baby-carrot out of my pocket for him to munch on. Never a milk-bone, from my past life I knew those were like candy bars to dogs and Labradors had to keep their weights down if they wanted to go the long years.
Beach-girl would keep one eye on Herbert when he'd visit with me and then when he returned to her side, she'd give me a half smile and a simple wave with wiggly fingers. Then she'd settle down in her beach chair, open up her electronic reader, and ignore the rest of her surroundings while Herbert majestically laid down beside her facing the ocean and watched the beachgoers go by.
All the regulars would be doing their own thing including myself. I'd sometimes paint, my kit being a collapsible easel that held my paints, brushes and canvas, or watercolors if on a whim, that was my chosen medium. I could fold it up and wear the kit like a backpack, leaving my hands free to assist my ascent of the stairs at the end of the day. Other days, if I had spent too much of my morning on my feet, I would bring a lightweight beach chair that had similar straps to carry using my shoulders, and would sketch in my sketchbook with pencils, charcoal, or pastels. If it was a cloudy day, with reduced glare, I might even work on an electronic drawing tablet that I was trying to get used to.
What I have hardly really mentioned to this point, is the subject of the stairs. Those fucking stairs. On one hand, they were convenient, starting their descent right outside my building where I lived. They were also pretty hidden, if you weren't a local, you wouldn't know about them, but on the other hand, they were fucking demonic. One hundred and forty-one steps of pure hell. On the ascent, there was at least a landing every 15 steps where I could pause and rest, but the final 30 steps at the very top, there was no break. Pure agony.
For me, the ascent would take 30 minutes in all. I'd be passed up along the way, kids running the entire length was one thing, but even seniors that were decades my elder made me look like a turtle. My head would be covered in sweat from the exertion, but thankfully, I was largely ignored, only the regulars would sometimes give an encouraging comment if they passed me along their way.
One day I had my painting kit out and turned my back to the Pacific, facing the stairs. On a too large canvas I painted an allegory with the stairway stretched between heaven and hell, reversing their positions. It was no Michelangelo, by any metric, but I put a lot of my angst and emotion into the art. It was unmistakable to understand how I felt about those stairs after laying down the final brushstroke.
Then something happened. Time. We all got older.
I had a professor give a lesson on change, more specifically, how we recognize it, using the passage of time in a way that made me think of what happened on this beach. In his example, a child is born and then photographed every day for a year. Each picture going up, in order, on the wall of a very long hallway. When looking at any two photos right next to each other, differences will be unnoticeable. Even groups of pictures next to each other, changes aren't discernable. Yet put the first picture next to one taken on the child's first birthday and the changes are huge. I don't know why that lesson struck and stayed with me so many years later, until one day it came to the forefront of my mind on my beach.
Herbert visited me like he always would, only he moved to me practically in slow motion, his movements appearing labored. I kneeled down in the sand and scratched him behind the ears, noticing the white around his jowls in contrast to his jet black fur, and there was now a fogginess in his eyes. I pulled out a carrot and instead of eagerly taking it, he just dropped it in the sand. I still got a sloppy kiss and a waggy happy tail, but he turned and went back to Beach-girl. Her wave to me seemed kind of sad, like she knew how I was thinking too.
Yeah, so we all got older. Just being in my mid-to-late 30's, my hair was starting to thin, the first signs that I'd someday be bald on top like my late grandfather was. Elizabeth brought her extended family down to the beach just recently and she waded into the surf up to her knees and spread the ashes of her husband into the receding tide. The twins grew into big strapping teenagers, their mother no longer going to the beach while the boys brought what seemed like different girls in skimpy bathing suits every day.
Only not Beach-girl. She looked exactly the same. Just short of an athletic build, but one that filled out her own bikini rather nicely. Long brunette hair, which I never saw once that wasn't tied into a ponytail, though sometimes she would French braid it while looking out to the horizon. In the colder months the bathing suit would be replaced with yoga pants and sweatshirts, sometimes even a puffy jacket. Yet overall, she still seemed to be in her early 20's like when I first saw her. Maybe she had found the fountain of youth or something.
*
A couple of weeks went by where Beach-girl was a no show. Highly unusual. I hoped she was OK. Then I had to go to New York City for a few days to consult on a painting that needed restoration.
The day after I got home was a bad day for me. Being folded up in half and squeezed onto an airplane seat, my back felt like Jolly the Green Giant had gripped me around the legs and shook me like a baby rattle. I almost skipped going down to the beach, but just the thought of feeling the vibrations of the surf pounding the sand would be what my soul needed at that moment.
I brought my painting kit despite knowing my back would be better off if I just brought my beach chair and stretched out with my sketchbook. I made my way down the stairs and was starting to set up on the sand when I realized there was something missing. Beach-girl was in her beach chair and looking right at me, but Herbert was nowhere in sight. She got up and started walking towards me, looking somber. I got a sick feeling in my gut.
"Hey," she started softly, barely loud enough for me to hear, "I just wanted you to know that your buddy, Herbert, passed away."
