I watched her get into a rental car and drive off. Puzzled, I examined the off-white pebble in my hand, so cool to the touch. Perfectly rounded by the wonders of the sea, it had a salty smell. Somehow I felt comforted by the pebble. I looked around at all the pebbles surrounding me and realized I wasn’t alone on the island, or the planet, after all.
I decided to keep the meaningful gift. It’s now six years later and I still have it on the kitchen windowsill. It’s my constant reminder that angels have placed every single pebble on all the beaches of the world.
We can squint or strain our eyes all we want, but chances are we’ll never see one of these elusive characters. Just because we can’t see angels doesn’t mean they haven’t been there!
Beach pebbles are the proof. Who else would go to all the trouble to decorate our beaches with so many pebbles that we could never count them?
Roberta Beach Jacobson
Uncle Hamish and the Beach Donkey
Ihada lover’s quarrel with the world.
Robert Frost
When I was a young girl in northeast Scotland, our home was invaded every summer by relatives who came to have a vacation by the sea. My cousins Jackie and her brother Iain arrived every June and stayed with us throughout their six-week school holidays. There was only one exception to the welcome visitors, and that was Uncle Hamish.
The only good thing about Hamish was that he was married to my mum’s sister Dolly, and she was so much fun. When my cousins and I were alone, we used to talk about Uncle Hamish; we dreaded his stay because he did nothing but complain.
He didn’t like the seaside and he certainly didn’t like children! He complained that the water was too cold and the sand was so fine it blew everywhere. The sand flies always bit him more than anyone else, and he didn’t like us going on the donkey rides, as the poor donkeys must be sick of us kids. We paid a small amount most days to ride a donkey along the sand, and we loved it. Nothing pleased Uncle Hamish; his ice cream always melted and fell on his shoes. That never happened to us; mind you, we never had it long enough to let it melt!
In the 1950s, there were two rows of changing huts or cubicles at the top of the beach. They had wooden roofs and canvas sides and a little wooden bench in each one where you could leave your clothes once you had changed into your swimming costume.
Uncle Hamish was in one of these in the front row, just bending over to fold his jacket, when something cold and wet rubbed itself down the back of his legs. He leaped out in alarm, and we all screamed and laughed as one of the donkeys, which had stuck its head into the cubicle to investigate, ran off.
Uncle Hamish changed his views of the donkeys from then onwards. If one came near him, he would glare as if warning it off and then mutter something under his breath that made Aunt Dolly caution him.
I was ten the year that Mum told us “Uncle Hamish has had a heart attack.” We weren’t quite sure what that was, but we knew by Mum’s reaction that it was something serious. It turned out that Uncle Hamish’s heart attack had been mild and that he would be all right. Although we didn’t like him much, we realized that he might have died and were glad he was okay.
When it came to summer and Mum said, “Guess what, Uncle Hamish and Auntie Dolly are coming as usual,” we all tried to smile. We had thought that with his illness, coming to the seaside would thoroughly irritate him and would not be his best option.
It was when we were playing in the garden that I heard Mum and Aunt Dolly talking. “Well, I said to Hamish, ‘You have had a warning. Let’s stop saving every penny for a rainy day and take a really good holiday for a change!’”
“So what happened that you came back here?” Mum asked her.
“This is what he wanted. He said there was nowhere else he would rather spend his holidays than here on the beach with the kids!” Aunt Dolly explained.
I heard a kind of surprise in Mum’s voice at that but all she said was, “I thought he just put up with it all!”
Aunt Dolly laughed, “Oh that’s just Hamish’s way; he never admits to enjoying himself. The more he complains, the more fun he seems to have!”
We noticed a change in Uncle Hamish; he was much quieter. He didn’t glare warningly at the donkeys; he didn’t go on and on about the sand blowing into his tea. It worried us that he wasn’t complaining. Uncle Hamish was still ill and not really enjoying himself.
That was when I had the brilliant idea of digging a large hole and covering it with a towel while Uncle Hamish was walking along the beach. When he came back to lie down, he stepped on the towel and went tumbling into the hole yelling blue murder. Aunt Dolly and Mum reassured themselves that he hadn’t hurt anything, while he demanded to know who had dug the hole.
I told him it was me, so that he would fall in it and get annoyed and then he could enjoy himself. The three adults just stood there staring at me, and I couldn’t understand what was so complicated about my idea!
Little more was said to me about this episode, but by the next day Uncle Hamish was complaining how cold the North Sea was and that the sand flies were biting him as usual. I grinned at him, pleased that at last he was enjoying himself.
Every time I rose to do something, Uncle Hamish gave me the kind of look he used to give the donkeys. That pleased me most of all—they had really annoyed him and so my trick had worked!
Joyce Stark
Lasting Treasure
To give and then not feel that one has given is the very best of all ways of giving.
Max Beerbohm
The ocean tugs at my midwestern soul with the same intensity that the moon pulls the tide. Each summer my husband and I visit the seashore, where I walk endless miles on the beach. I’ve often asked myself why it is that I cannot motivate myself to walk a mile around the city park or in my own neighborhood. I suppose it is the gifts, the treasures indeed, that the ocean tosses in my path, and—if I’m not fast enough—reclaims with rolling waves. My heart pounds with childish excitement at each discovery.
On our last evening of vacation, my husband and I sat in chairs on a desolate sugary-sand beach at sunset, intent on capturing the sights, sounds, and smells, hoping for something tangible to take home. I wandered into the bubbly surf in quest of the perfect treasure, but rejected one broken shell after another.
Instead, I sat down and opted for a photograph of the perfect sunset. The setting sun silhouetted seagulls and pelicans swooping into billowing waves, but clouds soon obscured the view.
I watched a family in the distance walk into the surf. The parents lifted their toddler to the tops of the rolling waves; she appeared to be walking on water. Her laughter carried on the sea breeze. I trained my camera on them until dusk enveloped the beach. As they walked out of the surf, the little girl squealed when she noticed us. She bounded far ahead of her parents, awkward in her gait, head down and belly pooched out. I continued to keep her in my viewfinder, although I could not see features. She ran right toward us, her beach shoes slapping the wet sand, then she plopped her face in my lap and hugged my legs.
Her parents ran swiftly, apologizing for the intrusion.
“Not at all,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a treasure to capture the end of our vacation, and your little girl is just perfect.” I stroked her hair.
The toddler giggled, raised her head, and looked into my eyes. At that very moment I learned a lesson about perfection. A crown of wet, glistening, blond curls christened Kaleigh’s broad flat face.
Her crystal-blue eyes slanted and protruded, and her oversized, thick tongue fell awkwardly from her mouth.
“Down syndrome children are so lovable and overly friendly with strangers. We’re worried it will be a problem. I’m sorry if she got your camera wet,” her mom said. She explained that it was also their last day of vacation, and they had been praying for guidance as they frolicked in the ocean. This couple had to make a difficult decision the next day: whether to enroll Kaleigh in a self-contained classroom with special-needs children, o
r place her in a classroom with normally developing children. They did not know what to do.
Kaleigh babbled, squealed, and chased shore birds as we conversed. When she hovered too close to me, I stroked her hair and she cooed like the gulls. Her parents apologized repeatedly.
“You must focus on her capabilities, not her disability. Each of us is endowed with special gifts, and your little girl’s is friendliness. Don’t apologize for her. Accept it; the world needs more friendliness.”
“Do you really think so? You’re just being nice.” Her mom seemed self-conscious. I told her parents that it was no coincidence that we happened upon one another on an isolated beach. “I am a preschool teacher with over twenty-five years experience.
“Inclusion has benefited many of my students, some with autism, behavior disorders, and a variety of learning abilities. The normally developing children come to understand each person’s profound uniqueness. And it helps the special-needs children feel a part of the group.” We talked until the full moon spotlighted us.
“Thank you so much,” her mother said. “You have been a godsend.”
In my scrapbook of mementos, I have a photograph of a little girl who taught me a more valuable refresher lesson than any I have ever taught. In my quest for perfection, I was reminded: every seashell, no matter how pitted and broken; every sunset hidden by clouds; every person, regardless of physical or mental condition, is uniquely endowed by our Creator. I believe God sent his little angel to me—as a gift and reminder of his unconditional love. That summer vacation stood out as my most memorable; the treasures I took home were not as tangible as a jar full of seashells, but they will remain long after the seashells are forgotten.
Linda O’Connell
A Flash of Green
Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The sun sets, painting the dusky sky pink, red, and violet. Just as the sun slips below the horizon, its yellow glow yields to a brilliant flash of green.
Thirty years ago I read a magazine article about just such a scene. The author described this green flash as a rare occurrence seen at sunrise on the East Coast and at sunset in the West. It sounded spectacular, and I longed to see it with my own eyes.
That summer our family vacationed at a small resort on the Washington shore. At the close of a cloudless day, I settled on the sand to wait for sunset. I was determined to catch a glimpse of the elusive green flash. Staring into the sinking sun for what seemed like hours, I saw spots of yellow and red behind my eyelids but not a hint of green in the sky. My husband and children lost interest and wandered away, returning now and then to joke about my obsession.
As the last rays of daylight disappeared, the sky turned black. The sun had set before my bleary eyes without turning green, not even for an instant. My desire unrewarded, I returned to our cabin to face the jibes of my amused family. After that, every trip to the beach gave them the opportunity to tease me about the green flash. “While you’re out there, Mom,” said my son, “why don’t you see if you can spot Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster?”
“Yeah,” my daughter chimed in, “maybe you’ll see a UFO!”
My husband, not to be outdone, would add, “Maybe they’ll even beam you up!”
Despite their ridicule, I continued to watch every coastal sunset, hoping to see the green flash. My hope shriveled as the years passed, and sunsets, even the most showy, always ended without a hint of green. In time, I quit looking for the extraordinary and became content to view a sun that set in the usual shades of yellow and red.
The green flash was all but forgotten when my husband and I took our six-year-old grandson camping in the summer of 1998. We pitched our tent near the beach at Cape Disappointment State Park on the Washington coast. Our first day there was perfect, warm, and sunny, calling for a twilight walk beside the waves.
As we headed down the sandy path leading from campground to beach, the sun lowered on the horizon. A ball of flame, I half expected to hear it sizzle as it sank into the cool green Pacific. Hurrying toward the beach I glanced between the log-strewn path and the glorious setting sun. I couldn’t believe how rapidly the huge red ball was dropping. I wanted to stand and watch it, but the sandy lane was narrow and too busy for loitering.
Stepping onto the beach, I stood away from the trail to view the final moments of the sun’s descent. My grandson beside me was as awestricken as I to see the variety of colors that sinking star displayed. Crimson, magenta, violet, and gold glowed before us in a matter of seconds. Then, with a shimmering flash of green and a sea-swallowed sun, the day was over.
It was real! The green flash existed, and I had seen it. Not that I was looking for it or even thinking about it. I was merely enjoying the beauty of the sea and sky, when the very thing I’d desired for so long appeared before my eyes.
As I marveled at the sun’s parting glory, I realized this finding of joy when not seeking it had become a pattern in my life. Once I quit longing for the extraordinary and started finding pleasure in everyday things, I would, on rare occasion, be blessed with something as spectacular as a green-flash sunset.
My love for the beach and its beautiful sunsets continues. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll catch another phenomenal flash of green.
June Williams
“Catch of the Day”
If you surrender to the wind, you can ride it.
Toni Morrison
The sun rose over its watery hurdle, blazing down on a small boat swaying against sloshing waves. The craft bobbed up and down while two men maneuvered a leviathan-sized net through the water. A salty breeze stroked my face, leaving a thick, tacky glaze as I sipped the French roast, savoring its potent flavor. The coffee steamed down my throat, scouting a warm trail into my stomach. With staccato jerks a seagull’s beak poked the water as he goose-stepped through the mushy sand searching for morsels to fill his belly. Like the gull, I too was searching for nourishment.
After months of writing I’d landed only a stringer of disappointments. Familiar surroundings cast no bait to tempt my hungry spirit—no subject lured my imagination. Convinced the mundane had suffocated my creative breath, I fled to the seaside, yearning to consume exotic delicacies and gorge my inspiration-starved appetite.
The fishermen stretched the net just off shore. As the boat edged closer, one man jumped into a wave and pushed the dinghy the remaining distance. Once the boat was beached, a wispy youth, clad only in a pair of cut-offs, leaped ashore, hauling several buckets. Blond hair spiked up from a clean-shaven face, and two silver hoops dangled from his left earlobe. White sunscreen streaked beside squinted eyes that observed the confident motions of his partner’s hands guiding the net inland.
The older man, his leathery skin seeping sweat, sported a thick gray-streaked ponytail at the nape of his neck. A T-shirt advising “Save Our Wildlife: Drive a Drunk Home” topped his swim trunks.
As if acting out his part in a long-running play, each performed his respective role, oblivious to the curiosity seekers congregating. Together they tugged until the net joined them ashore. The growing audience watched mesmerized as the net’s contents spilled out to a chorus of oohs and aahs.
I’d assumed nothing of interest could be captured so close to shore but decided to go see what had initiated the rumblings. On the sand lay a conglomeration of the strangest creatures I’d ever seen. The fishermen began tossing some fish into buckets while returning others to sea. It appeared that the unusual creatures were freed while the ordinary ones were saved. Those in the buckets seemed too small for any retail value.
A woman wearing a wild floral shift spoke. “What’s that over there?”
The older fisherman glanced to see which fish had been singled out. He scooped up a tiny, flopping fish. “A robin fish,” he answered, raising it for inspection. “It got its name because the flippers on the side look like wings.” He pitched the little fellow into the water. We watched as the miniature “wings”
fluttered its escapee away.
“Look,” called the boy, holding up a stingray, “looks like we’ve caught this’n before.” He laughed and pointed to a stinger laced straight-pin style in the ray’s back and then said to the onlookers. “We remove the stinger so the ray won’t hurt anybody. We don’t kill any fish we don’t need.”
“Just what is your need?” I blurted out.
Without pausing, the man explained, “We collect food for a seabird sanctuary that nurses injured birds back to health. When a bird can survive on its own, it’s freed. The boy and I feed the nursery. It takes a lot of fish for those babies. We work every day collecting the food—their very lives depend on it.”
He set the fish-filled bucket on their boat, then grabbed another bucket and resumed the sorting.
I watched until the older man straightened. He gazed down the boundless coastline before he nodded at the boy. They walked the boat out to sea, jumped in and then rowed out farther, beginning the process once more.
As I witnessed their diligence, I envied their competence—soon realizing it was their diligence that created the competence. Like the gull, I’d feasted on tidbits from the sea that morning. They weren’t the delicacies for which I’d longed, but rather the ones necessary to nourish my ailing writing. I’d waited too long for serendipity. I would return home to begin my daily seining and sorting, becoming a fisher capturing the words needed to give flight to my writings, fledglings of creativity.
Janice Alonso
The Shell
I watched my mother and two young daughters wading ankle-deep in the ocean on Lido Beach in Sarasota, Florida. Their long pants were rolled nearly to their knees, but still the bottoms were wet. We were searching for seashells to bring back home, but we weren’t having much luck. My husband sprawled on the sand, his jacket rolled in a ball beneath his head. We were all trying to soak up the last few precious minutes of our vacation. Later that afternoon we would board a flight back to Chicago— back to freezing November temperatures, back to work and school. And unfortunately, back to reality.