Wave Portraits On The Strand

Wave Portraits on the Strand
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> The Arcadian shores section, of North Myrtle Beach, is one of those
idyllic meetings places of sand and surf where we like to spend many hours
walking the beach. It is a broad expanse of sand that is part of Myrtle
Beach's "Grand Strand." The beaches here adorn the shoreline with a
continuous and sparkling white necklace of sand for over 30 miles.The
strand stretch from Pawleys' Island, South of Myrtle Beach, to Little River
near the North Carolina border.When we walk along its golden length,the
feeling of sun and wind on your face and the feral sound of surf pounding
against the sand is exhilarating.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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.
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> 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 rorsharch patterns that reached out differently to the
casual observer with a pattern unique to each.
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> 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,so far away to the North.
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> 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 innocense,I spun an artful tale of clams growing older and
their shells not fitting them any more.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.
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> 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.
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> As we reached the indentation of water that is Ocean Creek, we
turned around and walked back towards our condo at Land's End. 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 and it was fascinating to watch them
drift across the wetter sections of the strand.It is a moving river of sand
that has endlessly recycled itself from sea to shore and back countless
times throughout out the millennia.
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> The sound and sight and smell of the ocean were in our senses and
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. Even sitting in the balcony of our Land's End condo,we could watch the
continual array of strollers as they foraged the beach for shells or walked
their dogs or just enjoyed the sensory overload that nature
provides.Sometimes kites would be flying overhead or joggers running by or
maybe just the sight of a solitary stroller at peace with the world.The
beach is a mental palliative like no other.
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> I like it best in the early mornings when all is quiet along the
strand.The pre-dawn light, far out on the Eastern sea, 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.
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> And then, like a suspended yellow pearl, the golden orb of the sun
rises over the Eastern Ocean and climbs through the morning sky.The
aquamarines and 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.
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> Joseph Xavier Martin
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