![]() I like to stare out at the straight blue-ink horizon. By the time the wobbling gold orb hoists out of the water, I’m on the beach wrapped in a towel with my knees against my chest, every ugly hair on my arms standing straight up, my teeth chattering, though the air is soft and my skin powdery I’m a coldblooded little animal and walk into the water at dawn with little shock, ride waves in until my fingertips shrivel, then cartwheel dry. Since I know that, of course I swim alone. When a current pulls you out, swim sideways, parallel to the beach, gradually angle in, let the current help you. He said he knew not to fight, not to try to get back by paddling against a current stronger than man or beast. The undertow pulls even in shallow water. They’ve warned me not to go in the ocean alone. When I break one open the “doves” that fall out look like my baby teeth I’ve saved in a ring box at home. I tell my father the little bones that rattle inside are doves of Jesus’s because I saw that on a legend of the sand dollar postcard but he says nonsense, sand dollars are real money that mermaids use. We picked up sand dollars together and lined up our collection along the driveway wall. ![]() The first peachcream rays slide over the water and strike the sand first, lighting the beach as if from below. ![]() All the years I was small, he often would wake me up and say, “Corne on, Bud, let’s go to the beach.” (I was “pretty as a rosebud” then later just “Bud” or “Buddy.”) At this hour it’s easy to see why these are called the Golden Isles of Georgia. My father taught me about the beach at sunrise. On the island I slipped out early to walk the beach washed clean of footprints. Many primitive charms must be worked in solitude. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |