Waves. Where might the writing go with waves crashing along the shore, dredging up the sand and stones, tossing huge drift logs that seemed so stable and solid before the wave that came up high enough to rush around it and undermine its foundation, made of sand after all.
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| They keep coming |
From the relative safety of shore, I see the water that at first glance seems to be a flat surface covered by waves is actually an undulating mass, rising and falling as if disturbed by immense submerged creatures. Out of these undulations arise the great shore waves that seem to appear from nowhere to surprise the unwary, the unmindful. These waves first suck water from the shoreline, pulling it back as if into a vacuum, adding its substance to the wave so that it rises up and begins curling into that cupped shape like a curled tongue, only to break apart and crash into white foamy water, effortlessly churning the sand and stones, breaking them down even more, before moving up the shore’s slope an unpredictable distance.
Then, in retreat, the water slides down the beach, curling around larger rocks or chunks of wood, caressing them with a deceptively gentle flow before being pulled into the next large wave. The cycle continues endlessly, or so it seems, and I imagine all the rocks being broken down into stones, stones being smoothed and worn down to sand until it would seem there must be nothing left but ocean.
On a calmer day, the beach is a safer place. The waves still come and play their little game of tag, fooling me into thinking I know their limits, but always they win, forcing me back at least once. Their game is gentle, chiding, reminding me that they could have me if they wanted me, but they are content to warn and let me explore the treasures that were unearthed during the time when the waves weren’t so friendly.
The stones along the south side of the point where the Fort Worden lighthouse stands are well worn, varying in size from tiny pebbles barely larger than sand to larger stones shoved further up the shore where they have to endure the erosive waves for a smaller part of the day. The stones near the tide line are marble size and still wet. Glistening with seawater, their colors glow with such rich intensity that I want to take them all with me when I go to savor their palette, but I know from experience that they look different once they dry, their color retreating into a faded memory, and it seems wrong to take them away from where they express themselves most fully.
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| Yes, these are rocks. And sand. |
Still, I sift through stones and squat in spots to see what jumps out at me. There’s a lesson in seeing here. The first glance reveals only the most distinctive rocks, those that leap out for whatever reason, but as I continue to look, more and more reveals itself. I know it was all there all along, but it takes time to see it and I wonder how much I miss as I rush through the world, not taking that time. Tiny stones with colors I’ve never seen, or etched with lines as if painted by a master artist and left there, a free masterpiece to be enjoyed by the attentive. Bits of beach glass of azure, brown, green or white with a hint of lavender are easily missed amongst the display of the stones. It occurs to me that the beach glass is a bizarre twist on coming full circle. Stone to sand. Sand to glass and then, litter to be etched by the waves and sand into bits of color shaped like the stones from which they came.
