The past two nights Paige has slept like a newborn. Up every two or three hours, fussy, not wanting to be alone. Normally it's fine when that happens, we bring her into bed with us, and we all get a decent enough nights sleep. But now she doesn't want to come into our bed, she wants to stay in her bed, which means whoever is with her goes back and forth or tries to sleep in her cramped little twin bed that doesn't do nice things to a grownup body... and leaves you with numb arms or a creaky back... .
We drop Fynn off at preschool, and me in my yoga pants and Paris teeshirt and Paige in her pajama bottoms and rain jacket decided that a trip to the beach to pick up shells and sea glass is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Upon arrival we see the fog. And on the beach, it engulfs us. We hear the ocean, but we can't see it. The small amount of clarity given to us is just enough to keep from looking up and feeling dizzy with claustrophobia. We keep our heads down, and our ears open. Cloudy sea glass is the new sand dollar... and we search and search. We find sticks and leave messages in the sand... be still... you are enough... listen... . and as the tide is going out I can only hope that someone sees and takes the messages to heart.
In the distance we see a shape. Sitting and hunched. Maybe a fishing pole? We can't tell until we get closer. And there he sits, the perfect image of a fisherman. Yellow slicker, grey hair puffing out from a sturdy baseball cap, cigar in mouth, stoic. He doesn't move an inch as we draw closer, he stares off into the fog. We walk around him, and my girl who can't keep her voice at inside levels indoors, is hushed. I look back after we pass, and he still just sits there, on a massive old plastic pickle container, his bait by his side. We smell his cigar for ten more minutes down the beach.
We walk on and find some treasure, bottlecaps, sea glass and angle wings... purple and delicate. This time of year is for the locals. We smile and actually wave at strangers, bound together by the knowledge that this is our beach. Seagulls sit, fat with a summer of tourist food and children dropping sandwich crusts. An army of sandpipers gather and watch the waves, timing their advance perfectly.
On our way back, he's still there. Motionless even as a dog without a leash runs up to him. Finally he turns his head, gathers his bait on his lap, nods to the dog owner. Then he returns to his pose. And we pass again, not a word, just footprints hushed by sand.
The fog has lifted only slightly, and we can see only a bit further. Clarity still escapes us, as we walk towards the fog. We are sleepy and slow, but we are trusting what's hidden in front of us.