Beach Portraits

Portraits on the Beach



When we walk along the golden length of the beach, the feeling of sun and wind on your face and the feral sound of surf pounding against the sand is exhilarating.





It was late afternoon and the sun was shining brilliantly, framed high in an azure sky. The warm breeze from inland swept along the strand and caressed us comfortably as we walked.

The rhythmic pounding of the surf upon the broad expanse of beach is a sight and sound that never ceases to fascinate me. Our eyes drank in the moving tableau eagerly, never tiring of the mesmerizing motion.





Sometimes, we would happen upon the blob of translucent goo that was the remains of a Jellyfish. They look sort of forlorn lying there, a mushy and shimmering pile of used-to-be fish, like some kind of a lopsided bubble that has not yet burst. We stepped around the oddity and continued down the beach. It was low tide as we walked upon the still wet sand. We were watching for the many colored and differently shaped, interesting shells that the rolling waves sweep across the sandy canvas in a never-ending portrait of sea and shell and sand.





Like a modern artist splashing a can of paint across a pristine canvass, the sea draws distinctive patterns across the sand with every wave. Sometimes a small scattering of shells would be strewn in a seemingly random pattern that was both symmetrical and appealing. At other times, the weeds and shells and flotsam would tumble and roll into a formless liquid crystal display that rolled in and out with the tide. It was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of Rorschach patterns that reached out differently to the casual observer with a pattern unique to each.





The shells themselves are a rainbow of tans and reds and darker hews that lay whole or broken as chance would have it. We cried out like small children when we captured an especially uniquely shaped or colored shell, brushing the sand from it and carefully placing it safely in a pocket for transport to our home.





I remember telling my three-year old great nephew, Mason McGinnis, a tall tale of where these shells really came from. As he listened in wide-eyed innocence, I spun an artful tale of clams growing older and their shells not fitting them anymore. Every growing clam, when it had purchased a new shell from the clam clothes factory, would hang up its old shell in the clam closet for use by a younger and smaller clam. The rocky closets would be full of an infinite variety of old clam shells waiting to be tried on by younger clams.





Sometimes a ferocious storm at sea would overturn and scatter all of the clam closets old shells. They would wash up along the shore where we would find them and bring them home. It seemed logical to Mason at the time. I only hope he forgives me when he grows older and realizes that I was only spinning a tall tale for his amusement.





As we reached the indentation of rushing water that is an intercoastal waterway entrance, we turned around and headed back. The wind was rising and the dry sands from the nature preserve were being whipped across the wet beach, like smoky tendrils of dry ice. They snaked along the beach, in feathery white fingers that seemed almost surreal in their movements I had never seen these sand tendrils before. It was fascinating to watch them drift across the wetter sections of the beach. It is a moving river of sand that has endlessly recycled itself from sea to shore and back countless times throughout out the millennia.

The sound and sight and smell of the ocean were in our senses. We bathed in the sensual bath of the many pleasant stimuli that we encountered. Walking the beach is a timeless pleasure that we love to no end. Sometimes kites would be flying overhead or joggers running by or maybe it was just the sight of a solitary stroller at peace with the world. The beach is a mental palliative like no other.





I like it best in the early mornings when all is quiet along the shore. The pre-dawn light, far out on the Gulf, paints shadows along the undulating expanse of an aquamarine canvass. The very white froth of the surf seems almost phosphorescent as it tumbles and splashes against the shore.





And then, like a suspended yellow pearl, the golden orb of the sun rises up from the East and climbs through the morning sky. The aquamarines, whites and tans all take on a rainbow of hues and nuances of color as the light shifts and intensifies. Winslow Homer could paint this shore forever and never use the same shades of color twice. And, this magnificent spectacular appears daily, free of charge to those who walk the beach. We never tire of it.

-30-

(834 words)

Joseph Xavier Martin