We had some friends staying at a beach house. They rented the home with a front porch that ended at the sand. It was a beautiful place in a pedestrian and functional way, a simple but efficient beach cottage.
We went over on Friday night and spent several hours on the patio. There is something about that setting that seems to refine conversation to its most essential form.
We didn’t talk a lot, but a great deal seems to have been said. Long pauses were filled with the sound of the pounding surf. The silence was punctuated by insightful comments and the occasional question. Life itself seemed to slow down.
The ocean often has that effect on me. The noise of my life quiets and my mind settles into a slow, reflective rhythm. Thoughts are more important than words. Words come slow, measured and weighty.
I went to school in San Diego, and the beaches there shaped my education, my intellect and who I was to become. Long walks on the beach were my counselor, confessional and companion. I have returned to them often to renew my vows of youth.
Interestingly, I am not a sun person. My Irish skin is no match for the Southern California sunshine, and so I am drawn to deserted beaches, shrouded in darkness or morning fog. It is there I find my peace. This time was no exception, and a late-night walk punctuated our departure.
We returned to the cottage on Saturday evening with an invitation to spend the night. My daughters were eager for us to say yes. We did. The group lingered over late-night pizza and collectively collapsed trying to make our way through Best in Show. My last memory of the movie was a vision of the depressed Weimaraner in a counseling session.
Sleep at or near the ocean always comes easily and deep for me. This night was no exception, and I awoke in the morning with that glorious feeling of having no idea where I was — always a sign I have slept well. It was particularly gratifying to find myself at the beach.
The first one up, I made the coffee and settled comfortably on the porch. The beach was sparsely populated with early morning surfers and dog walkers. A light fog filtered the rising sun. Life does not get more perfect, and I reveled in each moment as it passed.
The other souls in the house began to rise and joined me on the porch, the conversation still marked by awe and reverence. We sat and watched a new day blossom.
I went for a walk with my daughters and was surprised to find their demeanor much the same as my own — quiet, reflective and thoughtful. An hour later we were back at the cottage ready for breakfast.
I write about this not because of what I discovered but because of what I didn’t. I write about it because it occurred to me there is value in letting the mind stop for a time and just be.
I cannot say any great lessons or learning came out of my time at the beach house. I can say that upon leaving my mind was rested, renewed and ready to start again. That is wisdom enough for this week.
— Tim Durnin is a father and husband. He can be reached at tdurnin@gmail.com for comments, discussion, criticism, suggestions and story ideas.