(no subject)

I got up this morning around six and rode west down the sea-wall to where it ends, probably about two miles, maybe two and a half. All along the sea-wall there is no beach; the wall goes down, a sheer twelve to fifteen foot drop, to about six feet of horizontal cement blocks, then straight into deep water.

The sand-beach starts at the west end of the sea wall and stretches, as far as I know, to the tip of the island some twenty-five miles away. Because of the tropical storm that just came through the panhandle of Florida and stirred up the whole gulf, there's a lot of seaweed around -- probably there's some usually, but there was a LOT. Still, I locked my bike up to a sign and went down to see about some beachcombing.

Sure enough, the tide was just starting to come in, so there were two rows of seaweed and a long stretch of firm, wet sand between them. Oh yes, my friends, there will be picspam. Especially of the big bulldozers that were pushing the seaweed around, trying to get rid of some of it.

I've always been fond of coasts, rivers, bays, oceans -- my family on both sides were seafaring folk for generations, so I come by a love of the water and an inability to swim in it honestly. Starbuck -- not actually my surname -- is an ancestral name on my father's side, traceable back to the big whaling ships a few hundred years ago when they used boats and hand-thrown harpoons to bring the whales in. The "Starbuck" character in Moby Dick is modeled on an ancestor of mine, supposedly. On my mother's side I have at least one documented, verified and certified pirate, who eventually helped settle the Canadian inland and became a minister and a pillar of the community. Arrr.

Anyhow, I haven't had much chance to be out on boats much, but I do love beaches. It's not that I like the feeling of sand between my toes, because I don't, but I certainly do like the feeling of the ocean between my toes. And of course I like scavenging along the beach; show me a waterline and I revert to a state similar to la_rainette's younger daughter, who has an extensive collection of Shiny Rocks. I pick up shells, stones, glass, and other odds and ends; today's haul included a rubber bouncy ball, a fisherman's red-and-white bobber, and a MAGIC SHOVEL. There's an odd assortment of homeless beach toys that lie out, abandoned by their owners and occasionally washed out to sea. (It occurs to me that children are never more industrious than at the beach; adults go to the beach to relax, but children go to dig ditches, build sandpiles, and generally clean the beach).

I was actually bending over to pick up a baby abalone shell when a wave washed up over the seaweed and deposited a small plastic yellow shovel at my feet. I suppose it's a trowel, really, whatever, MAGIC TROWEL does not have the same literary cachet. I swear to god, as soon as I picked this thing up I started finding better shells and more interesting sand formations and seaweed piles. I brought it back with me; I may send Rainette's girls a package with the shells and shovel, before we leave.

I rode back feeling rather windburned and gritty -- my new sandals have been properly christened in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico -- and found the Belles sitting on the porch around nine in the morning, cheerfully discussing hurricanes of days past.

While I have washed, eaten, and half-napped in a chair, they've gone on to discuss Cubans, doctors, water-parks, oil wells, the Salvation Army, and are now on funerals, always a popular topic. I think I'm going to have to devote an entire post to the story of Louis Jr.'s secret wife, who showed up at the funeral in mourning and proceeded to inherit everything.

Wait, I tell a lie. Now they're talking about coats. The fun never ends, I tell you!