8.6.06

The beach is crowded, although it is a little cold and very grey. It is the first time I have heard this west coast surf in several–four?–years. I remember the last time was in Santa Cruz, when Eden was small enough to wear her cherry pajamas. This week, we passed those pajama’s down to our neighbor Luna, who turned three on Wednesday. Eden is eight now. Five years then.

The waves roll in evenly, the seventh of each series breaking frothy and white – large enough to be seen over the sand’s soft rise. The family behind me is of Middle Eastern origin. They speak to each other in their own singsong tones. Only once do I hear an English term ring out: “Cheers!” A thirty-ish man takes a digital photograph of four others – one a clearly aging grandfather – all perched like birds on a driftwood log.

I think of the Gaza beach in June, the shelling, the families lost. I recall one AP photo of a little girl, wailing in sorrow and soot. Somebody somewhere had captured soldiers and now, apparently, she had to pay. I am sure that by now people, reliant and determined, have returned to that beach – nervous, but defiant, unable to make any other logical choice, unless it is to cower. Like me they sit, listening to the waves, watching their children laugh at a game of dodge-and-chase with the surf foam. Unlike me, beneath the laughter of their children and the passing of a glass there is fear, apprehension, anxiety.

Here, on my safe shore, No one fears. The Midwestern family besides me is wrapped in beach towels and college sweatshirts. They read grocery store novels and Archie comics. My girls run back and forth from the surf to our picnic site yelling: “Our feet are freezing!” We’re disappointed, maybe, by the lack of solitude, by the abundance of fog. But not one here listens for the whistle of a wayward shell. No one here is afraid.