Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow --
Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul, --
Then with ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the seagulls calling to the sea.
-- Sara Teasdale
It hurt. And the assault to the soles of my feet was almost as painful as the sunburn that graced my shoulders and back. But, I continued my pace, across the sand and shoal, running the beach while the surf swirled around my bare feet. As always happens when I make it home, I found myself called to the ocean, and with my family being their usual boisterous selves, I needed the quiet expanse of the nearly deserted beach. After six months of a fairly sterile, very controlled environment, my colorful, chaotic family was an assault to my senses that I wasn't prepared for. So, I found solace where I always did, doing what the Army had made me come to appreciate more than I thought I could. I ran.
I had started at the southern-most point of Wells Beach, where a rock jetty meets the sandy beach. As a child, I had played in the tide pools there that formed between the rocks, delighted in the little pockets of ocean, teeming with life. I smiled at the memory as I took off my shoes and socks, leaving them high enough up the beach to be safe from the incoming tide. A large chunk of my childhood revolved around the happenings on that beach. It was fitting that my most soothing days of my adulthood were found there as well.
The sun was barely up, and it glistened on the water to my right as I ran north, passing the first lifeguard tower, and a few other early risers, out walking their dogs. My breath was slow and even, and my lungs delighted in the fresh ocean air -- a scent that I didn't even know I had missed until my first breath of it that morning had almost brought tears to my eyes. The air was cool along the water, though the late spring morning showed a haze on the horizon that promised sticky heat later in the day. The surf splashed cold on my bare feet, causing me to attempt to dodge the waves, but after a few hundred yards, it turned into a soothing balm for my bare soles - they were used to the protection of combat boots, and the coarse sand aggravated my skin. I would have blisters before the run was over. Oddly, the thought made me smile. I had come to be proud of my battle scars.
At that thought, I looked down to my left hand -- still bruised, swollen, and scabbed from breaking it in a training mission a couple weeks before. It ached dully as I ran, and I quietly cursed myself for not putting the damn air cast on it that morning. The orthopedist at the VA said I only needed it if I was doing physical activity, and where most of the pain was gone, I didn't really think about it until I actually needed it, at which point it was too late and I was without it somewhere. Ah, well... that's what Ibuprofen was for. I would survive.
I came up on the second lifeguard tower, where two lifeguards were setting up for the day. They waved as I passed, and I returned the greeting, continuing my solitary path down the shore. It was a good day for a run. I dodged debris left on the beach from the tides -- seaweed, driftwood, the occasional rock or piece of trash, and marveled at how much better I felt just being out of the house. How on earth did I survive 18 years with my sanity intact, with those crazy, loud, exasperatingly lovable people? I laughed at myself. It wasn't them, of course... it was me. I had changed, and I knew it was a direct result of the Army's influence. It was still too soon for me to be able to go comfortably without the structure, control, and discipline. Not that I didn't enjoy letting go for periods of time. I just couldn't quite let go ALL the time. I smiled. I'd turned into a little control freak.
As I came up on the third lifeguard tower, I lengthened my stride a bit. Another lifeguard was setting out his rescue board and buoy near the waterline, and he eyed me appreciatively as I passed. Yeah, there was something to be said for the Army, if it got tasty morsels like him to look at me like that. I smiled. I might get the hang of this return to civilian life after all.
At the fourth lifeguard tower, I turned around. The towers were a quarter-mile apart down the beach, so I had hit a mile. I knew I could run farther, but my feet were singing with each stride across the sand, so I headed back toward the jetty. It wouldn't serve me to be unable to wear shoes for the rest of my vacation. After all, I had packed some deliciously killer heels to wear out with the girls that week. So, I ran down the beach.
When I hit a mile an a half, the cool salt water stopped being a balm for my feet and started to sting. I'd broken the skin. It hurt. And oddly, the pain was very similar to the pain my sunburn left behind. I smiled. Hell, even on vacation I was getting all sorts of beat up. I slowed my pace and shortened my stride a bit as a concession to the pain, as the surf swirled in its easy rhythm, and the gulls cried overhead. I checked my watch; I was making damn good time. As the last lifeguard tower approached, my feet were on fire. I wanted to quit. In hindsight, I probably should have, but I pushed through the pain, and drove on toward the objective. I passed the tower, waved at the lifeguards, and continued down the beach, my feet slapping the sand in matching cadence to the waves. I was almost done.
As my sneakers and socks came into view, I sprinted the last hundred yards. My feet wanted to protest, but they'd gone numb. Finally, I reached the end of the beach, and stopped, ankle-deep in the water, bent over at the waist with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I smiled.
When my breathing returned to normal, I sat down on a large rock to assess the damage to my feet. There were blisters on the balls of my feet, and the ends of my toes, all of which had popped already. I decided to go barefoot back to the car. But before I could bring myself to leave, I sat on my rock in the sunshine for a good twenty minutes, just watching the tide roll in. The sound of the waves soothed away the last of my restless frustration. As always, the ocean spoke the words my soul needed to hear -- like an old friend in a time of need. It was then that I realized that no matter how long I'm gone, it will always call me back. And what a comfort that was...
After the memory passed, I sat on my bunk here in the Shit Hole, and fervently wished for the ocean. It's calling me back again... too bad I've got several more months before I can answer the call...
