They Come for the Sunsets

“Okay if we share the bench?”  He started asking while he was still behind us as he reached the end of the access path and entered the unobstructed expanse of beach as it merged into the ocean and sky beyond.  He sat down and looked to the horizon.

“They come for the sunsets.  Tourists do.  We live here with the tides.  The high tides and the low ones.”  He said these things while staring out over the rolling waves.   I wasn’t sure if he was meditating or greeting us as another new pair of visitors to his beach.

   

Sunrise, not sunset, was much closer to the time when our paths intersected on that bench by the south-most public access to the beach.   According to my wife’s Vivofit, we walked about three and a half miles up the beach and back.  The bench offered us a spot to rest before returning to the condo and a late breakfast – strictly a vacation routine for us. 

 “Where are you from?” he asked. 

“Kansas City,” we replied. 

“Me,” he said, “I live in those condos around the curve – lived there for the last 28 years.” 

“You come here every day?” I asked. 

“I do.  It’s my life now.  It’s where I want to be.  It’s the only place I think I could be,” he replied but his eyes never turned to see our faces.

His dark gray Dockers broke over well-worn Merrills filled with woolen socks.  A heathered maroon sweatshirt with slightly frayed cuffs covered his collared shirt.  There was white lettering on the sweatshirt but he never turned toward me enough to read what it said – perhaps his alma mater or supporting some local cause.  He did not look like a man who would covet a logo from Polo or Izod.  His glasses were dark brown tortoise shell, thick lenses and oval shaped.  All this and his bucket hat with the brim pulled down were meant to protect him from the 47 degree temperatures and freshening ocean breezes. 

 

Winnie and I returned to recounting the sights of our walk up the beach and back along the line where the tides reverse and ebb toward the retreating sea.  Without exaggeration we saw millions of shells that had been deposited along this line.  Some had been there through days or months of tidal cycles but others had been newly cast out of the sea.  The creatures inside such shells struggled to escape the obvious fate that comes with being left high and dry.  Black Skimmers and Snowy Egrets, shore birds with long and powerful beaks, began their work of harvesting breakfast from the stranded shells.  They were so focused that our invasion as we walked through their feeding grounds went unnoticed.

We talked a little more about the plans for the rest of our day.  A grudge match of Bocce Ball at Mackle Park with her sister and brother-in-law was scheduled for 3:00pm, but mostly the day was planned to be unplanned.   I noticed that as we talked, we had continually lowered our voices to what was now a whisper.  I think we sensed that our bench-mate was deep in a place where visitors should not break the spell. 

  

My throbbing hip and tweaked knee had rested enough so I turned to Winnie and whispered, “I think it’s time to head home.”  She nodded. 

Wanting to be friendly, as we got up, Winnie said, “It was nice talking with you.  We hope you have a really good day.” 

For the first time, he turned to look at us.  The sadness in his eyes filled his face as his coke bottle lenses enlarged every sagging wrinkle and his drooping lids.   But he smiled.  The smile was for us – a friendly smile.  It wasn’t a light that came from inside him.

“You all enjoy your stay here.  The sunsets are spectacular!  When the ribbons of orange and yellow make the ocean glow, you can almost see the sun waving goodnight.  When you’re together with other folks amazed by the sight, there will be spontaneous applause.”  He paused and turned his face back toward the ocean.

He added without looking at us, “But also remember that sometimes the sunsets will be hidden behind storm clouds or fog or just an overcast sky.  The tides are always there.  You can always see them come and go, even when the water is roiled by a storm.  Sometimes the tide is high.  Sometimes it’s low.  The tide is real.  Sunsets are for show.  Holding hands with someone watching the tide is better than each person applauding alone.”  And then, “Enjoy your stay.”

Ever so slightly, we saw him nod his head toward the horizon as if to confirm the truth of what he had said.  He had returned to that place and left us to wonder about his life. 

But we did hold hands walking home.

--td