Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: BEACH (09/01/22)
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TITLE: Timeless Treasures | Previous Challenge Entry
By Tammy Ortung
09/08/22 -
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I don my faux-crocks and slip quietly out the door, careful to lock it behind me as those I leave behind still snore softly in their cozy, warm beds.
I tighten the hood of my raincoat against the persistent drizzle as I trudge the half mile to the beach. Dawn breaks against the gray sky just as I reach the small trail and amble through tall grasses that many have traversed before me. My feet, moistened by the wet grass, are further chilled by the morning air. The forecast predicts the sun will break through the thick haze in about five hours, but for now clouds cast their shadows.
Sand seeps through the holes in my shoes, causing an uncomfortably friction as I make my way toward the surf and where the outgoing tide has left hard-packed sand that is easier to maneuver. Later, tourists will cruise this naturally made roadway in vehicles and rented electric bikes, but for now, I revel in my solitude.
As I stroll along the waterfront, I bend to pick up the new treasures left by the outgoing tide: a rock, another shell for the basket on my kitchen table and a sand dollar. Seagulls squawk loudly as I admire the large pieces of driftwood, carved by ocean currents, that mark the landscape.
Having spent more time on the east coast in recent years, I am struck by how this beach is a stark contrast to those found there. Here, dull gray stretches as far as I can see, with no evidence of the rolling white mounds found near the Atlantic. The sparkling blue Carolina waters have been replaced with brownish waves. When I first ventured out this summer, I’d been alarmed by this ugly goo washing up on shore.
“Why does the water look so polluted?” I’d asked my husband.
A few days later we asked one of the locals. “It’s caused by a type of phytoplankton called diatoms,” he said. “They feed on the nutrients that pour in from the smaller waterways.”
Today the residue seems thicker than usual and noticeably more pungent. Especially when I stroll past the area where the horses are normally harnessed, awaiting any would-be tourist willing to pay exorbitant fees for the novel experience of trotting along the beach equestrian style. Prices had been more reasonable when our daughter was little.
“Let’s go for a horseback ride,” I’d said and watched my daughter’s face glow with excitement when we started our adventure at a leisurely gait. We rode several miles down the beach watching others flying kites and frolicking in the water. But when we turned back toward the starting point, my daughter’s horse suddenly took off at a gallop. She screamed and my heart slammed into overdrive at the stark terror on her face.
I kicked my horse, urging it to go faster, though I’d only been riding a handful of times myself. I only had eyes for Alice. “Hold on, Alice,” I’d called out over the sound of beating hooves.
One of her flip flops slipped off and flew into the water, but she held on, her little body bouncing awkwardly up and down on the saddle. Finally, one of the guides drew alongside her and slowed the horse to a more sedate pace.
“You, ok?” I asked, smiling reassuringly when I eased my horse to her other side. She nodded unconvincingly, but I took her lack of tears as a good sign. We both breathed a sigh of relief when our feet were back on solid sand.
We spent the rest of the afternoon searching for shells as we scanned the surf for that errant flip flop. We never went horseback riding again that summer, or any of the following summers. Yet despite that one misadventure, we had some amazing times in the Pacific Northwest over the years.
Several other people have ventured out to the beach now, so I turn toward home. The sun hasn’t yet peaked through the clouds, but the day already seems brighter and I am feeling optimistic.
“Lord, thank you for letting me enjoy your beautiful creation this morning and for reminding me of the wonderful memories we've had here. Forgive me when I lose sight of all the times you’ve been there for me. Thank you for your continued mercies.”
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