Pacific Morning

A standard Northwest blanket of fluffy coastal clouds holds back the early morning sun. Mist in the distance obscures the horizon. I’ve peeled off my outer layers and am plodding through dry sand toward the receding surf. Ocean mornings always beckon me to go for a run. A quiet beach reveals so many things to me and I am out earlier than most. A few hearty souls slept through the night time festivities and are rested enough to be sifting sand for treasures. Last night mini-parties clustered, each around their own bonfire, all across the beach by the dozens. The hooting lasted into the wee hours. I noticed even at 4 am that several were still burning and people were roaming and prancing across the vast sandy expanse. Now’s my chance to see what the morning light reveals.

The sand artist left his post before dinner time last night with a wad of cash and a smile, but his creation remains mostly untouched even now, even though countless tourists have approached her and posed with her, giggled and poked at her. She’s still smiling, but her nose has fallen off and there’s a dent in her tail. He so lovingly cared for her all day, preening and combing her with a small piece of driftwood, pausing to enjoy his work and ask passing tourists for donations to support “the arts.”

Running barefoot across mounds of soft golden sand is harder than kicking steps up a snowy mountain side. I heave breaths for over a quarter mile until I reach the damp, hard sand that’s revealed itself since yesterday. Then I hit a rhythm and my breathing matches my steps. The serene Pacific stretches eternally in three directions: behind me to the south where it rounds an evergreen curve, before me to the north where it disappears into the morning mist, and west where it slides over the curve of the earth near infinity.

My warm, naked feet are padding almost silently on damp, cold sand. I jump over rocks and dried up jellyfish beached by yesterday’s tide. Gulls chase each other, fighting over breakfast scraps and patrolling for the catch of the day.

Crabs legs large and small lay strewn about and a distant sound of sea birds makes a constant ruckus above the timeless hiss of waves and wind. Pillaged sand dollar shells lay broken open by the dozens. They pass under my feet.

I occasionally step over a whole one, then turn it over to see if anyone’s home. In several minutes of running I’ve stopped half a dozen times to flip over a whole shell, just to see. I gently unearth it from the soupy wet sand and look. Then one of them surprises me. Hundreds of black velvet feet wave from below a perfect white circle. I watch for a moment to see all the tiny feet moving together in the same direction, like wind over a wheat field, looking for traction and escape, but in slow motion. I take two running steps toward the surf and chuck him in as far as I can, hoping to spare him from becoming a seagull snack. He skips sideways and flips awkwardly over two waves then disappears to the bottom. I begin running again.

I slow down to step over rivulets draining out of an estuary in the east. A lone heron stalks in still waters too deep for gulls. The packed sand turns bumpy where water has rushed over it making sand waves. Something man-made has collected mussels and barnacles. They are reaching out with tiny comb-like hands for food even though there is no sea within reach to feed them. The mass of them all together makes a crackling sound as each shell opens, reaches, and breathes.

A casualty of the night lays untouched, undiscovered except by flies. The morning is growing older. People are digging where the heron was just a few minutes ago. They’re looking for clams or shells or something that requires buckets. Sand castles and footrpints begin to appear.

The sun warms the sand lifting the mist.

As I return to the cement steps leading off the beach, I notice the sand artist has returned. I ask what his creation will be today. “She’s in good shape, I think I’ll keep her.” I ask how many days she’s been with him and he says that two days is the longest he ever keeps a creation. “If she’s still in good shape tomorrow morning, I’ll wreck her myself. You’ll see a new one tomorrow for sure. But today, she stays. I can fix her.”