Dear Graham,
Remember when I told you I came to Pedasi to learn the ocean the way I learned the Rocky Mountains of Colorado? Well, it is beginning to happen.
The way I came to know the Rocky Mountains was simply by getting into them. I hiked the mountain trails, sat silently beside waterfalls, and felt their power as they thundered into the pools below. I sat in wildflower meadows and gazed across at the rugged peaks. I felt the rocky paths beneath the rubber soles of my boots. I walked beside cool mountain streams, listening to the rushing water tumbling over rocks and winding along the shoreline. I breathed in the musky fragrance of the creeks and the crisp, thin mountain air.
I watched the wildlife—the great bull moose resting in a meadow at the base of a mountain along Blue Lake Trail, the fawns and their mothers grazing quietly in our yard, and the rhythmic thunder of elk hooves as an entire herd galloped across the back field of our land. All of these experiences taught me. They slowly melded my being with the spirit of the mountains, the earth, and the clear Rocky Mountain air.
Now, in much the same way, day by day I am coming to know the ocean.
I know it through the feel of warm sand beneath my feet. Through the tiny crabs that scurry across the shore and disappear into perfectly round holes they have dug in the sand. There is such diversity among them—some the color of the beach itself, others brilliant red, and still others soft pink with intricate mandala-like patterns painted in deep reds and browns across their backs. The hermit crabs carry carefully chosen shells that they have found along the shore or beneath the waves. The Halloween crabs, dressed in vivid reds, oranges, and purples, pause to stare up at me with curious yellow or white eyes.
I watch pelicans flying low over the water in graceful chevron formations, sometimes twenty-one birds strong. Suddenly one or two break away, folding their wings to plunge into the sea in search of fish before effortlessly returning to formation.
Often, I see a Tiger Heron standing with elegant stillness upon a rock, gazing across the water before lifting silently into the air and settling high in a tree overlooking the beach.
During our morning water aerobics near Andromeda, I often notice two magnificent birds soaring high above us in the brilliant blue sky. Their long, narrow wings and deeply forked tails allow them to glide effortlessly for what seems like hours without a single flap. I asked Leslie what they were called, and she told me they were Magnificent Frigatebirds—birds that spend most of their lives in the air and rarely land.
Day by day I discover something new on the beaches of Pedasí. But Destiladeros is our beach—the beach we live beside and walk every day. It is the beach I am coming to know most intimately.
Yesterday we began our walk around 2:30 in the afternoon. The tide was low, and immediately I noticed things that were different from what I usually see.
As we opened the gate leading down to the beach, Tom spotted a tiny hermit crab tucked into the bushes beside the steps. It wore a beautiful dark brown and cream-colored shell.
“What are you doing up here, little crab?” Tom asked. “Shouldn’t you be down by the seashore?”
Part of us wanted to pick him up and carry him safely to the beach in case he had somehow lost his way. But then we smiled and said, “Nature knows best. Let’s leave him to walk his own path.”
A little farther along the shoreline I discovered something I had never seen before.
Just beyond the bubbling foam of a retreating wave was what looked like a delicate hieroglyphic etched into the wet sand. It resembled the outline of a fish, complete with fins and the graceful shape of its body. I stood looking at it, wondering what had made it. As I continued my walk, I found four or five more of these mysterious fish drawings scattered farther up the beach.
Then another small treasure caught my eye.
Lying in the sand was a tiny sand dollar, no bigger than a quarter. It was almost pure white with the faintest touch of gray around its edges. Though small, it was perfectly formed.
Our neighbors had told us that finding sand dollars on Destiladeros Beach is quite rare. Imagine my delight.
Not long afterward I found another treasure—a beautiful brown clam shell, still perfectly joined together by the delicate thread that connected its two halves. The hinge had never been broken. It was another rare gift from the sea.
Each walk along this beach feels less like a walk and more like a lesson. The ocean is slowly revealing itself to me, just as the mountains once did. It doesn’t teach through words. It teaches through quiet observation, patience, and countless small moments of wonder.
Little by little, the sea is becoming part of me, just as the mountains did years ago.
With Love,
CC
