Everybody's Searching for Something

This was a paragraph or two jotted down at the beach over two years ago. It's since been through a few revisions, finally morphing into what you see below:

Last night my eyes searched the sky for a coy moon. It’s less than half a moon, yet much more than a sliver. There’s enough glow to backlight the hazy clouds, so I know just about where to look as I anticipate its triumphant return through the puffy, cumulous outline. It’s like a game of hide and seek with the clouds in total control, at least until the sun breaks over the horizon. The night before things were much more clear. The moon, then half full and undaunted by drifting encumbers of clouds, parted the sea with its spotlight. The shaft of light ran from the tide pools to the distant horizon, illuminating each swell as they approached the end of their journey. Beyond the moon’s beam was a cold darkness, an impenetrable black framing the glowing ocean. It was as if a path had been illuminated for me. Whether gliding back and forth on a porch rocker, or traipsing barefoot in the cool, moist sand, the moonbeam beckoned me, seemingly coming to an end at my feet no matter where they stood. I felt then as if I knew my way; I could walk across that water.

But I barely got my toes wet. I just watched, taking in the scene in awe. And then, before I knew it, the moon gave way to a brilliant sunrise. The haze amplified the orange glow that foretold the sun’s arrival, until finally a blinding orb rose from the sea and burned away the haze. It was a new day, yet it seemed like an ending. And I missed the night.

That afternoon was a science lesson for my two-and-a-half-year-old son, Silas. What do you call a group of porpoises? Cattle roam in a herd. Geese fly in a flock. Whales putter through the sea in a pod. Whales and porpoises are close enough, and the alliteration is nice, so why not? Yes, we saw a pod of porpoises. They danced to the surface for air in pairs just beyond the cresting of crashing waves. Pelicans, too, worked the unseen, from our vantage point on shore anyway, school of fish. The noble sea birds stretched their necks and tucked their long wings, morphing into a missile before dive bombing into the unsuspecting school, more often than not emerging with their gullets full of sea water and lunch. Silas, taking it all in from his familiar perch on my right hip, asked, “Ride, dada?” Just like all the horses and cattle he sees during our drives in the rolling hillsides of home, he wanted to ride the porpoises. It’s hard to convince a toddler of the impossibility of some things. But he comes by it honest; just two nights ago I thought I might walk on water, and even if on the following night the moonlit path eluded me, I know the way may return tonight, tomorrow night… I am a dreamer.
But back to our science lesson. The tension was mounting, and I knew that if I did not redirect my son’s attention, I would either be plodding through the chilly ocean in search of an amenable porpoise, or watching the boy thrash about like a beached whale when I told him, finally, that we simply could not ride the black, bottle-nosed mammals. Tantrums at two beat all. But the little diggers came to my rescue. I had to look no further than my sea tickled toes, where tiny clams, deposited by the surf, left the safety of their colorful calcium shells, latched on to the porous sand, and burrowed under the surface. We had to look fast, as a second or two after each wave passed, the clams were gone, either swept away by the next wave, or adroitly angled just below the surface in the nick of time. “Look at the little diggers!” I exclaimed. I didn’t know exactly what to call them at the time. And, reluctantly at first, Silas obliged. But once he caught sight of one, with its lavender spirals radiating from the ligament uniting its perfectly symmetrical halves, he was hooked. The porpoise pod was now free to roam in peace. And the little diggers got an assist, as Silas quickly learned to grab handfuls of wet sand, spot a digger, and splatter the sand on top of it just before the arrival of the next wave.

That evening I pulled the trusty Audubon Society guide off the shelf. The little diggers are called coquina. Scarcely the size of your thumbnail, they come in nearly every color imaginable, their iridescent white circled by various shades of pink, blue, orange and brown. Silas saw their picture and, pointing, shouted, “Diggers!” They are so plentiful in some areas of Florida, the guide informed me, that their shells merge just beyond the low tide line to form a kind of limestone coral. Much of the architecture in St. Augustine, America’s oldest city, is constructed from the sea-swept remains of coquina. I’m not sure Silas will remember much from this lesson other than that the coquina share his love for digging in the sand, but I hoped that somehow my own curiosity rubbed off on him, and that, as he ages, perhaps he’ll trade choo choo trains and animated movies for books.

The next night at sunset we returned to the water’s edge in search of the little diggers, finding them plentiful. And for every one that burrows its way under the surface, half a dozen half shell remains, presumably picked apart by the last wintering sanderlings, tumble by like rainbows in the foamy green surf. I wanted an intact remains as a keepsake, and mined the shell-specked sand devotedly while Silas gathered larger shells and smooth, sea-worn stones to toss at the oncoming waves. Often I would find two coquina shells that looked nearly identical, but trying to fit them together revealed less than a perfect match. It seems that in life they are perfectly mated, but in death they are forever separated. I could’ve plucked any number of live ones for my purposes, but it wasn’t for me to take that, to have that.

Silas went to bed with his father, but awoke three hours later to find himself alone, dad out searching for the moon, foolishly, for tonight the clouds returned, bearing rain. The window to our bedroom stood open to better hear the ocean, so I heard his faint cries of “Dadda” break the rhythm of the surf from the adjacent porch, and quickly rose to soothe him. He asked for a hug, and my arms sought him out through the darkness. I held him tight until it seemed he had drifted back into his dreams. But before he slumbered, he wriggled free from my arms and showered my face with kisses. “Thanks for the kisses,” I whispered. “Thanks for the kisses; now goodnight, sweet boy.” And I slipped away, still dreaming.