To the Beach and Back

Chapter 14

Early the next morning, as I sit on a wide concrete barrier that lines the boardwalk with an array of friendship bracelets lining my left wrist, I try hard to remember the last time I've watched the sunrise. And by that, I mean really watched it, not just given the rising sun a passing glance from my kitchen window while washing dishes.

I honestly don't remember.

And I've never watched it rise from the ocean.

Allyse rejected my offer for her to join me on my quest to cross off the first item on my sand bucket list, saying it was something I needed to experience for myself.

That it was sacred.

I had thought she was being a bit dramatic, but now as I sit on the concrete wall staring out at the ocean, I realize she's right.

The sandy beach seems larger, and broader, now, stretching as far right and left as my eye can see, devout of footprints and the clutter of umbrellas, chairs, and chaos. It's pure, untouched, belonging to only me and the others joining me for this ritual. Some people are sitting on benches or on the concrete barrier, leaving enough space to not intrude on their neighbor's private thoughts. Some walk along the water's edge or sit in the low tide and cold water. But the one thing we have in common is how we're all staring at the deep golden-pink glow along the ocean line, surrounded by a cloudless azure sky.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, taking in the smell of saltwater and the sounds of crashing waves mixed in with hungry seagulls searching for breakfast and the pounding of footsteps from runners on the boardwalk. A peaceful glow burns in my heart, causing my shoulders to relax, and my chest to expand with each deep breath. But then another emotion pecks at the back of my brain, extinguishing my peaceful glow like a stormy wave on a fire.

Sadness.

Why haven't I taken the time for moments like this throughout my life? Why have I become so obsessed with my to-do lists and goals and habits, allowing moments like these to go unnoticed? How many simple joys have I missed in my quest for perfection? I mean, yes, I was a mother with responsibilities. A wife. A daughter and a worker and a homeowner who had things to take care of. But this week has made me painfully aware of all that I've missed out on in my life.

No. Stop. Don't ruin this, Marcie.

Just like you've done so many times before.

I'm tired of my nonstop barrage of coulda, shoulda, wouldas. It's exhausting. 

I open my eyes and glance at my watch. Five-twenty-five, six minutes until sunrise according to my weather app. I shift my gaze back to the shoreline lined with people sitting in the sand, watching the pink-orange haze at the crest of the ocean growing. When I had first arrived, I was tempted to sit there but then my feet would be sandy and I might get wet, so I chose the wall where it's tidier.

And where it's not right.

I glance at my watch again. Five minutes.

Surely, I can make it to the water in time. No. I need to make it. For some unknown reason, watching the sun rise over the ocean with my sandy feet in the water would feel like an omen, a promise to myself to stop missing moments like this. If I just make it to the water in time to see the sunrise, then everything will be okay.

I'll be okay.

Concrete sticks to my bare thighs as I stand, whipping off my flip-flops and leaping off the wall, thankfully not twisting anything. I run as fast as I can through the deep, smoothed sand, mentally apologizing to those behind me for the footsteps for marring their sacred view. My heart pounds and hair whips across my face as I rush past a white, empty lifeguard's stand and to the water's edge, plopping down in damp sand just at the tide's edge with a minute to spare.