I wanted to try a few new things with this post. These moments, while on vacation in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, caught my attention, and I wanted to try to give them an almost mystical feel, making them stand out from the otherwise mundane moments.

With a dark-blue bucket hat on his head, a pale mint-green shirt, and khaki shorts hanging from a tall, thin frame, the Surf Fisher wanders past me towards a weirdly empty and calm stretch of North Carolina coast. He carries a fishing pole and its simple pipe holder in one hand and a small, cloth cooler bag hung off his other shoulder as his long shadow is cast into the waves. He finds his spot, on the quiet, barren patch of beach, and smoothly drives the holder into the sand securely. He then fishes some bait out of his cooler, puts it on the hook, and walks down to the surf’s edge, far enough to let the water wash over his ankles. With barely a perceived effort, in a long, graceful arch through the air from the tip of his rod, his rig finds its spot in the warm waters and sinks to the depths. He walks the rod back, places it in the holder, and plops down in the sand, propped up on his elbows, his legs crossed with his ankle against his knee in one smooth effort. He then alternates his gaze between the Ocean and the tip of his fishing pole and seems not to have a care in the world, including whether or not he would catch a beast from the depths of this Ocean.

I turn my gaze away from the North and back to my feet in the sand, and then at the Ocean in front. As the waves roll and crash into the sand before me, I ponder, maybe even judge, the peaceful casualness of this man, with a hint of jealousy. I doubt there has ever been a moment in my life when I was ever that casual, smooth, and carefree all at the same time.

Almost as if released by the wind from some far-off realm, a grey-haired couple appears from the South, seemingly out of nowhere, strolling along the hard-packed sand at the very edge of the Sea’s reach. Their shadows, as well, dance in the edges of the waves. His hair is impossibly tidy, despite the wind, and he wears a brown, expensive-looking sweatshirt, taking no chances should the warm late afternoon weather suddenly turn sideways. I pondered if he had just stepped from the pages of a catalog. She has her hair up in a messy bun, strands of grey and black begging to be released, reaching for and catching the wind.  In a confounding contrast to her companion, she wears a sleeveless t-shirt, showing no concern for whatever the weather had in store, as she gently held on to his elbow. 

This Couple slowly makes their way towards and then past the young Fisher, making sure to duck under his hopeful line to the Sea. At the same time, the Old Man nods towards the younger man, and the Fisher returns the nod, with a glance towards the tip of his rod. They are in deep diametric contrast to the youth and vigor of the Fisher, but they all are full of that same carefree energy, pre-destined to meet on that spot on that beach in this moment.

The Couple barely makes it past him when they turn around, seemingly hitting the painted backdrop, the canvas that was this coast, this Ocean, these dunes reaching towards the northern horizon. For a moment, the three of them are frozen against the simple, majestic mural, just as a gust swirls the sand into a mini-tempest, filling the air and the gap between us, giving the whole scene the impression that Monet himself was painting it.

That coast, that canvas, stretches for miles beyond them, with the beach dominating the landscape closer to me, but getting much narrower ahead. Written, temporarily, in the sand were the remnants of a day of activities…memories not yet erased. Far-reaching footprints, somewhat smooth areas where towels once lay, small holes seemingly dug with small shovels by small hands, and large mounds, melting remnants of attempts at medieval imaginary architecture. Tiny and not-so-tiny white crabs sidle out of their hiding spots and suspiciously scuttle around, inspecting the beach that had now been mostly returned to them. Unlike the Couple and the Fisher, there was no calmness to these crabs.

To the East, the vast Ocean casually strokes the sand. She was the Queen; this was her realm. That beach, those dunes, the crabs, the Fisher, the Couple, I, and the memories of the day are all her helpless subjects for her to do as she pleased. In Her might and majesty, She could wipe away all before her in a single, wistful moment. However, in THIS moment, mercifully, she was calm, dressed in light blues and greens, which turn tan from the sand under the outer reaches of Her hands that caressed the edges of Her realm. Towards the cloud-painted northern mural, the coast takes a very slight turn towards the West, but it is enough to give the illusion that She had consumed the sand and all that was on it. 

To the West, the Dunes are nothing but rebellious sand that attempts to stand up to the Queen, believing that the tall grass, scraggly pines, and leafy vines are going to be enough to hold Her back should She decide it was time for her to extend her domain.

For now, in this moment, the Queen, the sandy beach, and the dunes coexist in peace, serving as a picture-perfect backdrop to these little moments.

Almost as if conjured by the turning Couple, the Fisher’s rod violently bends over at the tip, and in the same type of smooth, singular motion that he began this slow dance, he is up with the rod in hand and feet back in the water. Somewhere along the way, his hat had fallen from his head, held now around his neck by a string. He begins to work the reel furiously, in complete contrast to how he was moments before. The Couple stops to watch, and soon a small silver fish flops up the surf, almost glowing in the sunlight that comes in low from behind us.

The Fisher gently picks it up and starts working to unhook it. The Couple approach and seem to ask him about his fish. With the concophony of the surf and waves crashing in one ear and the wind whipping across the other, I can not hear their exchange. The Fisher extends his catch out towards her, and she gently runs her finger along its side, smiling, and then pulls herself tighter against the old man.  

The small group laughs, reacting to something she says or, perhaps, just her reaction. After a brief moment and some more smiles, the Couple moves to leave the moment behind as the Fisher offers his catch back into the Sea. The Couple soon makes their way past me, the Fisher returns to his pose next to his pole, and I dig my toes deeper into the warm North Carolina sand.

I contemplate the short scene for a few moments, becoming hypnotized by the waves crashing before me and the sand from the South blowing against my skin. My own Beloved holds my arm gently with her head resting against my shoulder. I am content in the warm June sun on that Outer Banks Beach.

I had not noticed the new activity of the Fisher until he was walking across in front of me, with his rod in hand and his hat still hanging off his neck. He looks at us and gives me the same smile and nod he had given the Couple and continues his way down the beach, his footprints almost immediately being lapped up by the waves. He walks for a time, parallel to Her Majesty, before making a turn up towards the dunes. I watch him with wonder as he disappears into the greens and tan of the dunes.

These moments — the memories—are surely missed and will be lost soon, and I realize that I do have one power, one gift to offer the Queen. While She is destined to wipe away the memories and moments written in that sand, I can be her scribe and record them and secure them and offer them, no matter how mundane they are. I can capture the Fisher, the Couple, the coast, the warm sand, and even the crabs, and set the memory of them free beyond that empty beach.

I cast my eyes again up towards the North and the now completely barren beach, and smile to myself. As I do so, another strong wind gusts from the South, whipping up the sand and creating another blurry haze of the northern horizon, almost as if a Painter had decided to wipe away his work to start over. I realize that, perhaps, the Ocean is merely a Princess, and the Painter of these moments is the Queen, and maybe I am Her scribe.