The Arsenal Files 6/The Arsenal Files 6 (Arsenal Computer).ISO/epub/rubyv52.zip/RUBY52-2

Text File | 1995-12-30 | 14KB | 227 lines

Copyright 1995(c)
               Observations of a Coastal Wanderer
                        by J. G. Fabiano


     The many beaches along the coasts of New Hampshire and Maine
have a beautiful distinction about them.  Most of them have the
ocean approach adjoining roadways with few small walls or buildings
to obstruct the view of anyone who has the opportunity to walk or
drive along their edges.  These beaches have been protected by town
fathers from being over-developed by those who see opportunity for
the few instead of beauty to be enjoyed by the many.
     Long Sands Beach in York, Maine, is one of those beaches.  In
between Route 1A and the beach is a walk.  It is elevated, which
allows the walker to see yet not be seen.  Living on the beach for
the past nineteen years has taught me that the beauty of the coast
does not only come from the physical surroundings.  It also
emanates from the visitors who walk along the long white sands of
the beach, and, having an intense imagination I make up stories
about the people I see.
     Starting from where the beach begins at the point where Nubble
Road meets the ocean, there is little beach at any tide.  In fact,
there is no beach at all.  The people simply lean over the large
rocks which separate the road from the water. Young and old stare
into the pulsating ocean and lose themselves in the heartbeat
precision of the neverending waves.  This is where the expert
observer notices what life's meaning should be. I have watched
people find, live through, lose, and then finally search for
memories that make and sometimes break their lives.  I have
observed people meet in large groups.  Their conversations are filled
with laughter, youth, and of course the innocence with which we all
begin our lives.  These groups eventually break into small separate
clusters to be reduced to pairs attracted to each other by the
possibility of creating their own memories.
     During the course of the summer I see these pairs of people
on their particular section of beach.  They create their territory
and do not like to share it. At first they are playing the part of
friends not daring to get close or to appear to be interested in
their now obvious partner.  But as the weeks pass I observe their
closeness overtaking the fear of being vulnerable.  First their
eyes meet and then they finally touch, to be seen perpetually as one
on their section of beach. I don't care if my observations are seen
because I know that if I stood directly in front of them they
wouldn't care.  In fact, they would not know that I exist.
     I also see the loners who dare not go on the beach but rather
stay up on the black-topped path and dream about their time on the
sand.  They dream about their lost hours that were either rejected
or just disappeared.  These people do not have to be young or old,
they are just in a stage of their lives.
     One of the most exciting sights for me is when I first observe
young couples and see them appear year after year together in the
sun.  Then one year passes and I see that they are not alone.  They
are now accompanied by a mirror of their own lives.  They always
appear so proud.  Year after year I watch them grow older and their
babies grow bigger.  Sometimes vice-versa.  Their memories never
end, they just grow longer and newer. I've almost lived here long
enough to observe the babies of the summer grow into adults.  I
have watched them grow to young children, radiating innocence and
creating memories for their parents and all around them. Yet, on
the other hand, I feel remorse for the people who become singles
again because of their life's fate.  They are seen in many numbers
staring out into the vastness of the ocean, obviously trying to
forget while fearing that they will always remember.
     The old are the people I enjoy watching the most, especially
the older couples who plant themselves on the park benches to stare
into the ocean and reminisce about their own pasts.  The old
couples bring hope to us all.  But the old singles display such
loneliness and despair that I dread the thought that one day I
might live so long as to remember my memories alone. Some old
couples lay their beach chairs precariously close if not in the
wake of the always approaching waves. They know that with each
large entrance of water they will get wet. But they still close
their eyes and react surprised as each new wave brushes their feet
and then wets their bottoms. Maybe this sharp sensation causes them
to remember the first time they exchanged a similar feeling using
each other.
     I remember once I observed a very young lady, perhaps five or
six, being instructed by her mother to sit quietly and enjoy the
beach. Not so far away I saw another pretty lady, perhaps sixty or
seventy, being instructed by an oldest daughter as to how to enjoy
the beach. The instructions made the two ladies fidget
in their chairs. They were obviously made uncomfortable by what was
being told to them. But then, as if some magnetic attraction
between the two of them developed, they gazed at each other. Their
eyes met and it appeared as if they told each other to calm
down and enjoy the sea. One day I hope to be fortunate enough to
experience what happened between the two of them. But I know that
I must first survive time and simply get old.
     Of course not all men and women dare to get that close to the
ocean. Many on the beach are seen straight backed, standing like
statues on their rock-like pedestals, contemplating nothing more
important than themselves.
     Walking further down the walkway the ocean now allows more
beach to appear. This is where most of the young are seen. The
children are creating their own form of world in the sand while
their parents dream about the world they either left behind or just
rediscovered. During a sunny summer day the sounds of laughter and
screaming drown out all that nature can muster up. But on fog-
bound days the inhabitants treat the shore like they would a church
with their voices daring not to disturb the sounds of the sea.
     Continuing my trek down-beach I arrive at the place where the
young are known to camp themselves for hours in the hopes of
attracting each other into summer and maybe longer relationships.
But again, during fog-bound times, even the young are awed into
staring into the ocean praying that sunny days are soon to
return. The lovers are always there, arm in arm and body to body,
in the hopes that their love is the true one which will last
forever. But the fog hints to these young lovers that they are
observing a truer reality. Whether or not this scares them or gives
them hope is their own mystery.
     Further down the beach is the territory of the more mature
inhabitants. These people have already been through over half their
lives and are in the midst of giving up their existences to mold
new futures for their children. Observing these people shows that
they always seem lost in their own thoughts or possibly in lost
dreams.
     The short summer season is not the only time one has to
observe the beauty of the coast of Maine. Another season that marks
the end of the excitement of summer and begins the preparation for
the holidays and the cold winds of winter is also a prime time to
observe what life can be. It is a remarkably quiet time of year. The
hustle and the bustle of summer vacations are still very clear in all of
our minds. Yet normality is not the only idea that comes back to us this
time of year. Serenity also creeps its way into all of our lives.
     Walking down the beach clearly shows how the screams of
playing children are now replaced by the songs of gulls overhead.
The acrid smell of aloed bodies is replaced by the pure smell of
salt water mixing with the salted air. Even the waves of the ocean,
which during the summer seemed to be pounding their way to the
beach in the hopes of dislodging all the bodies who would dare to
step more than knee-deep, now seem to be enjoying their own sense
of serenity by ever so gently touching the newly vacant beaches.

     The people of this season also have changed, not that the same
people aren't seen on the summer's beaches enjoying the warmth and
excitement of that season. But the bicyclist is not hurrying down
the beach to be the first to arrive at his destination. He is now
sitting by the beach on a bench, enjoying the eternity of the
ocean. You can almost see through his eyes and feel that he is not
even thinking of the fun of summers past, but is experiencing his
own emotions mixing with the emotions of the ocean.
     The slow minded boy, whom almost everyone feared and made fun
of during the summer months, easily joins the bicyclist in his
losing of self. And of course the men and women of the rocks are
seen again straight backed throughout the length of the beach,
standing like statues on their rock-like pedestals. Different
seasons or times mean nothing to them. Even the old, who during
the summer were sometimes pushed aside to make room for the energy
of youth, now set the pace, staring down into the sands of the
beach, contemplating the sands of their lost time.
     The very young walk with the old more this time of year. They
play the part of a sponge soaking all the knowledge that let the
old get old. The youth are so young and the old seem so old that
is very difficult, especially on the beach, to tell them apart. The
other inhabitants of the beach seem to trust us more this
time of year. The sand birds inch their way to a closer more
fearless view. Even the butterflies and white moths fearlessly
circle around our heads.
     The colors of this season have forever been written about and
pictured in pastels, watercolors, oils or photographs. But on the
beaches you can't only see the green of the ocean with its frosty
white caps. You can feel and smell how perfectly combined the
colors are--how the browns of the sands go perfectly with the deep
blues and grays of the sky. The morning sky takes a different form
this time of year, in that its colors complement the sea's so
perfectly that one seems to be a continuation of the other.
     The clouds appear to form holes at the end of massive tunnels,
sneaking a peek at a hopeful heaven in the sky. One particular
morning a small sailboat broke this consistency by daring to float
between the sea and the sky. I wonder if they knew how close they
were in attaining that light at the end of all of our tunnels.
The quiet is the most intense feeling this time of year. It is so
extreme that the rumbling of chain saws and the banging of hammers
can't even hope to overwhelm the quiet of the season. Even the
sound of my footsteps, as I walk down the beach, seems to naturally
belong to the serenity of the ocean front.
     The summer months expose people's souls to anyone interested
in observing them. The off season demonstrates the natural beauty
of the coast. But to me the most exciting observation I can make
is becoming part of a coastal storm. They always start with a lull.
Not your ordinary quiet, but a time so quiet you can't even
hear the gulls or the wind blowing through the trees. It is a time
when all those who live on the coast walk to the water's edge to
watch the low tide go ever lower, in preparation for the waters
destined to explode on the beach.
     The people are not the only ones who flock to the beach in the
lull before the storm. The gulls also come to a collective
realization that they must fly to the beach in preparation. They
are more courageous than their human counterparts, landing right
on the surf, staring into the water en masse, like members of a
religious cult awaiting their messiah.
     The impending storm toys with the emotions of its observers,
first by blowing gentle streams of fresh air that stir
recollections of the gentler summer breezes. Then the ocean shows
its first white frothing heads. Soon, the sea is a bubbling
cauldron of milky white foam and spray. The air around the few
observers left explodes with the sparks of mist, and the wind
forces the viewers to squint into what has always been and will
always be, as long as life can exist on this planet.
     The gulls at this point pray to some gull God in hopes that
mercy will keep them from being swept into the depths of the now
violent ocean. At the peak of the storm, the skies and the sea
become one, torn in half by the foaming waves and violent water.
Nothing else exists. Nothing else dares to exist. If there
was ever a time when beauty and violence co-exist, the coastal
storm is the pinnacle of both. The storm also puts the dreams of
the observer into perspective. The day-to-day reality of life seems
so desperately insignificant when compared to such violent
majesty. Yet the strength of nature, as reflected in the storm,
also inspires a sense that anything is possible, even achievable.
     The beauty of the storm is that no one ever sees it to the
end. Most viewers grow too cold or tired and head for shelter. The
only thing that remains is the stark, gray tone that hangs in the
air and over the ocean. It's a color that has never been
successfully reproduced, because like a sunset over the volcanoes
of Hawaii, or the blinding white of a snowstorm in the Mount
Washington Valley, the gray of a coastal storm registers directly
on the mind as a feeling, a sensation of power, rather than a
visual stimulus that can be tucked away for later use.
     There are many reasons why people yearn to be by the ocean. The
serenity, the perpetually fresh sea breezes, or the hypnotic sound
of the waves striking the beach. I love living here for one simple
reason. I am allowed to observe.
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