First Taste of Summer

found myself on a beach
skimming flat stones
on the surface
against the inrushing north atlantic
one threatening august afternoon
while smelly kelp wrappers clung to my heels like memories of you to my head
and broke
with a hiss on the sand
stealing pebbles unnoticed
leaving flotsam jetsam driftwood and more
than it could ever take
while smelly kelp wrappers clung to my heels like
memories of you to
me.

(from "Found Myself On a Beach" by Gerard Collins, August 2002)

At least for now, it feels like summer. It’s been the warmest and sunniest Victoria Day weekend we’ve had in a lot of years, and I took full advantage. We didn’t go camping or anything silly like that. As much as I love the outdoors, the idea of sleeping on the ground has lost its appeal for me. It just doesn’t make sense to me like it did when I was younger. Back then, I didn’t care where I slept—the more uncomfortable and less familiar, the better. But now, I like familiar, comfortable sleeping accommodations, preferably a good motel or a five-star hotel.

Sure, I used to see the appeal of camping. There’s nothing like a couple of days of getting away from civilization and all its trappings to remind you of your place in the world, of who you are, and you who started out to want to be. There’s also the wide open space, the big sky, and, of course the fishing—trouting, to be more exact. Even though I haven’t eaten red meat or poultry in over ten years, I still love a good meal of trout, preferably cooked over an open fire or at least on a barbecue. Of course, there’s also the time alone, without cellphones, iPods, cameras, computers, or four-slice toasters. Yeah, right. I’m sure most people still take all of those thinks with them when they camp, especially if they’re travelling in a recreational vehicle.

I think it’s mostly the lack of rules, the breaking of the daily tedium that appeals to most people. That said, my wife and I went to the beach Sunday morning, just because it was early and we figured no one else would be there. For close to an hour, we had it all to ourselves. But it was a beautiful day and by the time we left, there were dozens of people and their dogs, all trying to capture a little bit of the outdoors, all looking to break up the routine and get some sun on their faces. Can’t say I blame them.

There is nothing like a beach—unless it’s the quiet of the woods (which I actually prefer)—to help you get your thoughts straight and help you shed a few layers of civility. Beaches never fail to make me nostalgic and to clarify my thinking about something I’m working on or didn’t know I was working on. With their proximity to the ocean, and the surf rushing in on the tide, there is something cleansing and spiritual about a beach. I don’t mean “God” exactly; I mean, if I was looking for my soul, I think that’s where I would find it. I could sit for hours, just listening to the rush and hiss of the water to the shore, and the receding of the waves back to where they came from. And in the process, life somehow looks different. Either sillier or less important, or just different.

After a day at the beach, a pancake brunch at my sister-in-law’s, and an evening barbecue at my brother-in-law’s, I feel tired but revitalized. I’m writing this week, as I have been for the past couple of weeks. I had a novel that I thought was finished, but had a sudden epiphany about it, and so I’m working on that. Sometimes you just don’t know where life, or summer, is going to take you.

Peace.