SUMMER 2005 THE BEACH

It was time for the sun to come up, but the sky was still overcast and the light was subdued. The storm had passed on over but a gentle rain was still falling, making a soft patter on the camper roof and making a wonderful climate for sleeping. Walter slowly eased into wakefulness, stretched sensually in his bed, and considered whether or not he was ready to get up and get a cup of coffee. He had fixed the coffee pot last night and all he had to do this morning was heat the water and pour it into the top of the pot. He stumbled over to the stove and lit the burner. In a few minutes the coffee was almost done, and it was generating a delicious aroma. That wonderful coffee aroma did its job, and Walter was fully awake.

He had finished a couple of cups of coffee and had eaten a little breakfast of fruit and cereal, and now considered what he was going to do today. It was such a nice morning, that he thought he would take a walk on the beach. He hadnt walked the beach in days, and after the storm, there was no telling what a little beach combing might produce. He started to pull on his socks and shoes, but then he thought, There is no better way to walk the beach than barefoot. One can commune with his surroundings here on the beach by feeling the sand ooze up between the toes and then feel the seawater gently wash over the feet. Im not going to wear shoes today.

He started toward the surf line, but then he turned around and went back to the trailer for a plastic bag. If he found any good driftwood or other treasures on his walk, he would have some way to easily carry them. It was still early and the sun would not be full strength for another hour or so, so he also shed his shirt. Sack in hand, barefoot and shirtless, he headed for the waters edge. He liked to walk right at the line where the little swells ended their trek up the sand and started their slide back into the Gulf. The sand was hard packed here, and the walking was easier. Also this was the place where the seawater deposited any treasures it might be going to leave on the beach today.

There was a refreshing, gentle breeze and Walter was in high spirits. He was whistling some nameless tune, just to show how fine he was feeling. As he strolled along, he picked up a pretty shell here and there. He found a sharks tooth and a piece of unusually shaped driftwood that had been buffed by the sand as it rolled in the surf until it was as smooth as a babys bottom. His eyes were focused on the sand, looking for treasures when he suddenly realized that there was another set of footprints in the sand. They were a little farther up the beach from his location and he almost didnt see them. He looked around and saw no one. He thought that he had the beach in this cove all to himself. He hadnt seen anyone except Elmer, when he had visited last evening. These footprints had obviously been made since the storm last night, because the rain had wiped the beach clean of any earlier tracks. Even the hermit crabs tracks were cleaned up, but they were busy making new ones now, as they scurried about looking for breakfast.

Walter inspected the tracks a little more closely and noticed that they were small, like those of a teen-ager or a maybe a small woman. He decided to follow them to see where they led, but after a short distance they entered the water, and the wave action had done its job of erasing them completely. Then he backtracked to see if he could see where they came from. Again they seemed to have come right out of the ocean and there was no way to determine where they had originated. It was a mystery. He would have to get up a little earlier tomorrow morning and see if he could see anyone.

In the meantime, he had had quite a walk up and down the beach and the sun was beginning to warm up rapidly, so Walter decided to return to the camper, pull down the awning, get his book, and settle down in his lounging chair for some relaxing reading. He chose a book entitled The Painted House by John Gresham, and as he read, he was reminded of a time years ago when Dad had hired a crew to pick cotton on their farm. As he recalled it, he was about 8 years old at the time. That was a long time ago, but he remembered it as if it were yesterday.