Sophia
The first time I saw the birds they were small, almost tiny, quicker than anything else at the beach. Little brown balls of fluff, I thought they must be about a month from the egg. They flit in and out the shallow surf as a group, about two dozen, their feet running faster than an electric fan. Feeding in a frantic celebration with their curved, too-long beaks, needle-like pecking into popping bubbles in the sand. The effort promised a meal below, as the white foam soaked in and disappeared until the next wave. I thought, they don’t know it, but this is what they will do every day for the rest of their lives.
I’ve been coming alone to this beach for about six years, and then with Sophia, and now again by myself. It was awkward for me the first time Sophia and I walked the wide seashore at low tide. Strange to realize that I had forgotten what it was like to be on the sand with someone. Being alone had been as comfortable as a morning in bed. In those first few strolls with her, I felt like a tour guide.
It wasn’t long before the rhythm of the waves determined our conversations. An afternoon stroll, when the wind lied down and the ocean was like a sandwich spread, we would both be wistful, wondering about family or what last night’s dream might mean, or our conversation reduced to dinner choices. If the sea was ‘bravo’, waves slapping the beach and kicking salt mist into rainbows in the air, we were more likely to challenge each other’s feelings. Perhaps it was because we considered the beach to be a safe place, where thoughts were accepted and needed no further communication, the way birds through the sky leave no trail.
In those talks, I had a hard time accepting Sophia’s previous relationships. My insecurity was rooted in my failed marriage and my wife’s affair, so indicative of a man’s slavery to the fear of being cheated. Sophia understood, and might reveal a comedy or tragedy that involved a boyfriend, but only here at the beach and only with immense tenderness. We rolled in the surf laughing like barking seals about her friend Reid who would arrive early at a tourist resort to plant his homemade sign in the sand that proclaimed, “Nude Beach”. No laughter but tears, a waterfall of tears, when she told me of the torture and the fog of grief she felt, nursing her friend, Alvin, through Parkinson’s to his death.
A scoop of fifteen pelicans flew past only a short distance out and a few yards above the water. Traveling in single file, riding air currents that, like magic, negate the need to flap their wings, their flight silent, cruising as if they were statues on a conveyer belt. Sophia was fascinated by those birds and she would leap from her beach chair to marvel, hands on her slim hips, marble-blue eyes wide, her soft waves of black hair trailing in the wind.
One day, midsummer, the sun battling the marine layer, we walked along the cooling surf on a hard ribbon of sand. We passed a pocket of beach goers belonging to a private club that fronted the road. A dozen families claimed territory spreading their chairs and brightly colored beach towels, their coolers, and children’s toys, all anchored by bright colored and striped umbrellas,. The women wore wide brimmed hats and large, dark sunglasses, directed Pilipino nannies and their screaming toddlers as they charged into, and then quickly retreated, from the fizzy surf. Clusters of middle-aged men, all in sun glasses stood at the shoreline, smoking, their arms crossed, ignoring heavy bottomed, long-haired girls, but their heads turning in unison as twenty-something bikinis passed by. Seagulls stood vigil at a safe distance from the children, ready to pounce at an unprotected sandwich or bag of chips.
We had been quiet, mesmerized by the vast horizon that just barely divided the sky and ocean, a view Sophia considered to be ‘exercising our eyes’. In a distant voice she said, “You know, there is a price you pay when your dream comes true.”
“What dream was that? I asked.
“Oh, you know. The family. Children. The house on the lake. The sailboat. The cars. That picture of perfection we’re all supposed to be entitled to.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“Maybe. I think so. Anyway, I got close but it didn’t last long.”
It was only the first year of our relationship, so knowing only the broad brushstrokes of her history, I was unaware of the details. I did know she had the will of an orthodox rabbi, that she took small bites to stretch out her chocolate, and that she truly believed that hope is at the heart of love. So, I thought, some catastrophe must have derailed her. I asked what she was referring to but she deferred saying through her tight little crescent of a mouth, “It doesn’t matter. Regrets grow tiresome.”
We continued down a long stretch of unpopulated beach. The overwhelming silence made me feel unwanted. Then she said in a biting, nervous tone, “You know, it’s not always as simple as you might think. Sometimes people do the wrong thing for the right reason. But the bottom line is, never turn your back on people you love. No matter what.”
Now, as I lie in the sand alone, looking up at the limitless sky, reminded of that day which is truly unforgettable, I can’t help but ask myself, ‘Why is it that I’m unable to be grateful for what I’ve been given?’ I only seem to understand what I’ve lost. Knowing there are so few people given to us to love, I can’t make sense of what I did, trusting her but also betraying her. Selfish in the end.