Sands of Time

The first time I remember my feet touching the silt of the sea I was around 8 years old at Atlantic Beach in NC. I remember the scary tug of the disappearing sand as the tide pulled it from under my feet, I felt I would fall. I crave that tug annually. We have never lived more than 4 hours from the coast but it seemed like forever away sometimes. I once put sand in a box and brought it home. Then one cold winter day in North Carolina I warmed it in the microwave, took the box to my office and jammed my toes into it while I worked at the computer.  

In the late 70’s I was pregnant with my first daughter but wasn’t about to let that keep me from the sanctity of putting my ass in the sands of Key West. I dug a hole in front of a probably now defunct sand bar blaring Peter Framptom and Bog Seger. I then placed my rotund belly in the cool concave. About a half hour into my sunbathing I was hit on by a dude. I put down my book and rolled over to address him, he stopped mid-sentence and took off when he saw the swollen orb that had been hidden in the sand. 8 weeks later when I went into labor I walked the sands of Isle of Palms in SC because walking the halls of a hospital was so much less appealing.

When I go to the beach I seldom go into the ocean but I love the waves, the tug in the shallow surf. I adore how the sand makes me feel. I have come as far as one can go, to the edge of my terra-firma without being consumed by its majesty, the ocean.  

I have wizened to the idiosyncrasies of beach people now that I have become one: 

• Those  with the faraway look in their eyes. I used to walk past them and look out to see what they were looking at. Nothing and everything.
• The buried feet people, these are the ones that came out the day before and didn’t put sunblock on.
• The combers, the people who walk like they have a certain intention—  straight ahead, they pass you again a half hour later with the same intent. 
• The seekers, those hunch backed young and old with solo cups full of shark teeth and shells.
• The builders, those who make towers to say they were here, with moats and windows of shells. 
• The losers, the people who don’t know the tide and come back to find their chairs, flip flops and towels have been consumed by the Atlantic. 
• And lastly, sweet baby Jesus, bless their hearts — The sea gull feeders.

I can also tell you that sand is the best pedicure you can get. I always come back from a beach day with pristine pink bottomed feet. Sand isn’t always kind though. I would pack band-aids for Don and the boys for their boogie board irritated nipples. And there is nothing worse than sand in any crack if you aren’t near a shower when you leave the beach. I swear I almost made an oyster once in the car ride home once.  

Over the sands of time I have been all of the above. Today, on Folly Beach, I am just lost in the awesomeness of it all. I began seeking for elusive sharks teeth. I am sure I didn't look that distruaght but a kind man came over to me and held out his hand which was full of sharks teeth. He gave me three of them. A lot of people had walked by this man and he chose me to reach out to. I freaking love kindness!! Don then found one and gave it to me. 

After about an hour we made our way back to the public access. I saw my granddaughter sitting in the sand, her 7 month pregnant belly swollen. With a little imagination I can see my great granddaughter Tinley rising butt up to greet the sun and surf. Continuity, no where says it more clearly than the edge of America.