Animal Matters

The beach was so sluggish this morning I could barely walk through it. Like deep deceptive snow. I did a lot of dragging and kicking up the sand with the top of my feet. The kind you're not supposed to do when other people are around. I didn't find one shell I needed to keep. The light was hot but I could make out 2 wide dark tubes of rainfall far out on the horizon. That's perspective, I thought. The long view. I was struck by the fractal nature of this day. Chaotic. Fleeting. Utterly unpredictable. And the animal part of me wasn't disturbed by this. Actually, not disturbed at all.

There's another mom from the school that does the beach after drop off. But she runs. She runs low, in a zig zag, up and down, to make it harder. She's strong, like a small sun bleached horse. When she passed me she was carrying a large flat rock under her arm like a discus. A simple rock. I wondered if she would save it for tomorrow or when she was done with her other arm, just drop it.

I started to think about symmetry. That maybe it's overrated. Because I am a graphic designer, in part, I have too much affection for it. A circle pleases me too much and I am an evangelist for negative space. Life has not always been smooth and hardly linear, for me or anyone that I know or love. It's comforting to bring order to chaos. Put a thing in its place. Control the outcome. But this human appetite to sum it all up has gotten so graphic lately. The world is small. It is a web. My curiosity is a click stream. My friends are a network. We have a user experience. Give talking points. An elevator pitch. Oh, and every person should be their own brand. Every person a brand? Seriously?

We play a good game. If you were an animal, what animal would you be? I have always known I am a large breed wild cat. More recently convinced I am a mother lion. My daughter is sure that I am a jaguar. And don't forget it again, mom.

I'm finally smiling when I am halted by the beach patrol guy on a big four wheeler talking on a walkie talkie to a group of men in black about 50 yards away. You can't pass through here now. We have a problem, he says. Is this an animal problem? Or a people problem, I ask. It's a grenade problem he says. It's going to be a while. Where did the grenade come from? From the ocean we hope. Oh, I guess I'll have to go around. I could swim around, I say with a new confidence. No, I can't let you do that. It's too rough out there today. You can just cut up through that yard and out to the road where the fire trucks are. It's all right. Nobody is home.

Now this is not just some yard. It isn't Tiger Woods' house, but these are his neighbors. Massive windows shuttered because it is not yet high season. Good luck! So I venture up the wandering path to a large stone terrace. The kind of purposeful, accidental rustic charm that only very old money seems to buy. Green, green, green. There is a boyish gardener with shiny black eyes in a green uniform perched on the wall, trying to blend in. He pretends not to speak english long enough that I have to pantomime the whole thing and talk too loud. There's a bomb. It's OK. Someone is coming to take care of it. You're not in trouble. You need to help me get back to the beach way down there. Show me the way through this yard and the next yard too. He's not leaving his perch? He's just smiling now. I have to get home. I have a brand to design. I have children for gods sake. Now I'm crouched down, barefoot in the prickly edges of another thick hedge staring through the branches at the next house over. Another fence. Very interesting. He is squatting behind me. Do they have a dog? No, he says quickly as he stands up. Come on. He leads me to a little hidden gate that is not locked, and opens it for me to step through. There you are. Just right there.

Another open gate is waiting at the far end of a flat dirt lot. No one is taking care of this house. Not now. Not for a long time. I prance down the old wooden steps holding my car keys to my chest so they won't fall out of my suit. That silly old bomb. The pack of firemen standing around in a circle with their arms crossed all turn around from their waists up and lean back and watch me run by. Hello, they all say at the same time and exactly the same way. Like in a movie. I'm still a cat.

Isn't It Aquatic

Last Friday I actually waded all the way into the ocean. This is because Race was holding my hand. More commonly he must carry me. In his arms. On his back. On some floatation device. Fear is a powerful thing. Fear of touching the bottom. Fear of injury. Fear of the unknown.

This marital behavior is observed as a demonstration of love. Sometimes other wives at beach parties show jovial envy of my attentive husband. Some likely expressing mild disgust in private at our public display. Our young children waiting on the beach for our return. Mommy and Daddy love each other so much. A veil of romance cloaking my irrational adrenal resistance to the water.

Lately, always, quietly, this feeling infuses my sleep. (worry -verb: to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret). Use worry in a sentence. "We worry in each other's arms." Something needs to change.

Saturday morning my walking beach filled up with families for the long and ironic holiday weekend. The water was transformed, churning rare waves caused by a distant named storm skirting our coast. Surfers. Paddle boarders. Heat. A life guard. Our brave beautiful children. My handsome husband. All there. And so I went in. More deeply tired of being afraid than feeling afraid. I paddled out, by myself, on a watermelon pink boogie board.

What's the worst thing that could happen? (worry along or through, informal -verb phrase: to progress or succeed by constant effort, dispite difficulty: to worry through an intolerable situation). I could lose an arm. Or a foot. I am out almost as far as the surfers. Looking right into the small walls of water as they come. I can't look down when the water is calm. Everyone knows that all you have to do is poke a shark right in the eyeball and it will go away. Also you can drown the shark by pulling its tail directly backwards for a while. So I keep trying to ride the rythym. Cresting without capsizing. And then I'm thinking, the word blast was meant for this. I can see my son wrestling with the water at the shore far way, and Race swimming out deep with our daughter in his arms. Are you guys doing OK? I call to him. You should see your smile, he yells back to me. Your face is glowing! Now that's romantic.

The best things in life are free.

My Gold's membership and the 30 mile round trip drive to the gym has given way to a new ritual. Early, long, barefoot walks on the beach of Jupiter Island. Breathtakingly beautiful, a formidable workout, and just 3 blocks from the kids' school.

Last week, Race and I watched a tiny loggerhead hatchling make his way down the dunes, intent to get out to sea. It took him more than a few tries. He was tossed around, upside down, in and then back out onto the beach. He did finally ride the current out and swam like a champion to the smooth part of the water. Because they need to breath air, we were able to keep his small black head in our sights for quite a while. Until we couldn't anymore. I almost cried.

Yesterday I was all alone, except for a homeless man on the big rocks who just woke up and was preparing to fish. We said good morning. A flock of exactly 24 pelicans started following me along the coast. Or I was following them. We spent a good half hour together as they alternately dive bombed the surface and wobbled in the water like happy buoys. It was raining in slow motion. Giant birds.

Today was dog day. Three white labradors were body surfing and it wasn't the first time. A rogue black poodle with very long legs ran so far, so fast, in and out of the waves and around the bend. It may have been her first time. The owner looked like she had not been on a walk in a long while. Some unexpected exercise was needed. She walked behind me, probably reevaluating how much she really needed or wanted that poodle. Then I took mercy and sped up ahead to help. When the dog finally heard my voice and slopped herself over, she shook so hard, and was so damn happy, that I had to give her a big long lecture about what a trouble maker she was and head her back home.

When I'm done I always stand in the water and look out at the horizon for a bit. Then up the steps to the big smelly pavilion to shower off the sand. By that time, the picnic tables are full of these same local people praying out loud. And some other regulars, smoking cigarettes, listening to them talk about God. He's down there, I think, walking to the car.