The beachcomber who donates to the sea
I'm not really a beach person.
Afraid as I am of the sun and afraid of the unknown, the depth beyond. The lost and long unmasked siren who might lure me with destruction disguised as seductive music, although she knows damn well that she is only a figment of the imagination of a creative soul from ancient times.
Like almost everyone else, I feel strongly drawn to the sea, want to connect with it. With the salty water that sometimes reaches a bit further inland, coming towards me on dry land. And then suddenly it retreats just as quickly and leaves me and a group of its original inhabitants behind, some half or completely dead. Others, luckier, quickly crawl away into the sand, or hurry back together with the calm movement of their immense home. It seems as if the salty pool is frightened by that pale farang with his big feet and quickly runs away, fearfully leaving behind a part of his regular group of sea creatures that can no longer be saved on dry land. Will the eternal process continue to repeat itself when I am no longer there?
I never get the urge to run after the big puddle and dive headlong into it. Not even up to my knees, at most a bit shuffling over the hard sand waves that the retreating sea quickly creates on its way to its home, which despite all its fragility is older than everything. I do that cautious wading very consciously barefoot in order to be able to feel the connection, also with the small bottom of water that washes and plays around my white toes. I let it go; in the sea too there is a child with the great need to touch us humans, just as we always continue to seek her out. After all, we are more than half her relocated family, together, but also kept apart from her by a frame of fragile hardness that no longer allows a permanent stay with the elderly mother.
Unlike my body, my mind does allow itself to be pulled into the unknown depths. Waves of thoughts willingly join those of the open sea. The deep wrinkles that have plagued my forehead for a long time suddenly become smooth and blend seamlessly with those in the sand; some also dive into the holes, those small tunnels, dug at lightning speed by busy crabs, to hide from the sun and from hungry seagulls. But there is also always a little space reserved underground for a fragment of my superfluous thoughts, which then neatly and safely joins the tail of the organic excavator. A measured portion for each safe hole. If I am lucky, the minuscule structure collapses silently after my trespassing and those superfluous memories remain behind in the shallow caves of sand.
After all, I only send away those thoughts that I want to get rid of, that I am dead tired of. There are quite a few. They weigh heavily down there in the small bunker that was supposed to offer protection against the tightly orchestrated rhythm of the tides. And for a moment the beach brings relief, small and somewhat larger sins, missed opportunities, lost love, sometimes death. Everything disappears for the duration of a walk under the surface, however fragile it may be and only exists for the short moments that nature allows.
I look with enlightened spirit at the beautiful little person on my right hand, the forever colored memory attaches itself to our wrists, lights up and silently confirms once again what I have known for a long time.
For a while I was a beach person.
About this blogger
- Khun Rick dates from 1959 (currently 65 years old), grew up and still lives in South Limburg. After 40 years in the civil service, now almost 5 years with early retirement. Since 2001 he regularly visits Thailand as a tourist, but met his wife in the Netherlands and can often be found with her at his mother-in-law's in Udon Thani. Traveling together is his passion, eating (unfortunately) too and sports a necessity. And of course writing: used to be serious and now more light-hearted.
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