God seems to know when we hit the wall. Stress mounting so high it feels like my head will fly off my neck, pressure mounting outside my control. Not managing it very well at all. And then God says “Let’s go,” and I fly away with him, leaving it all behind.Amelia Island has been our getaway since Don moved to his home in a little piece of heaven. The view from my bedroom is early morning mist, dappled shadows, a faint breeze stirring palm fronds, the ocean’s deep-throated echo.
First footprints in the shallows, covered in swirling foam. If you stand in one spot in the wet sand for very long, you sink in deeper and deeper, pretty soon off balance and teetering. You have to move forward or step back, but you can’t stay in the same place. It’s a strange sensation, the sand disappearing beneath your feet, tide rushing back, leaving you stranded. Just like life.
A dog walks its owner along the beach, a broad stretch of shimmering wet sand, a mirage lapped by rippling waves, their energy almost spent. Two dogs – one the mirror image of the other, wet and glistening. Crab holes fill and gurgle as the sea washes them clean, little speedboat wakes as the water recedes. The sky is criss-crossed with contrails, dreams scattering in every direction in pursuit of adventure.
A feather floats on the tide and I reach for it. Held between my fingers, it hangs soggy and straight. I have stolen its life. Instantly regretful, I release it to float free again, and it quivers in delight, fluffing out its quills, off again.Pedaling hard, a bare-chested cyclist rides along the beach, playing the drums on his handlebars with two drumsticks, to the accompanying symphony of the sea. A group of women walk a muscular greyhound, one sipping wine from a glass on their Sunday afternoon stroll.
The cheeky sandpiper digs for crabs, running from the rippling eddies of foam flecked water that wash in on the rhythm of the sea, a game that goes on for hours. A dozen seagulls face into the wind on their private stretch of shallows.
A lone gull stands apart, two broken wings hanging like heavy grey suitcases on either side of his white body. It breaks my heart. On this horizon of freedom and beauty, he is damaged and earthbound. He gazes over his beloved ocean, wanting only to feel the breeze ruffle his feathers and the salt air fill his nostrils. He nestles into a spot on the damp sand, resting, kissed by the sun and caressed by the wind. But not for long.
Another gull approaches, menacing, chases him with evil intent. My broken bird scurries on, bravely carrying his heavy burden. I remember scenes from Jonathon Livingston Seagull, the ruthlessness of the flock, unforgiving when one of their brothers falls from perfection. I wish I could give him new wings. That would show them! He’d be the bird that would suddenly appear on that distant shore, advanced lessons already learned.
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My last day at the beach. No camera, no notebook, no backpack, no people. Just me walking along the seashore. Sun on my face. Sun on my shoulders. Footprints in the sand erased by the incoming tide.
