It is dark in the bedroom. There is no clock. Is it late? Is it early? And where am I now? I think I’m at the coast.  Michael is already out of bed.  I smell coffee. It draws me to the kitchen. Cup in hand, I walk to the balcony where Michael is already ensconced. The sky is crystal clear, a pale blue morning shimmering with the sun’s warming rays. This is much better than the gloomy gray skies hovered over us as we took the ferry across Intercoastal Waterway late yesterday afternoon. 

I think it is a good thing that we are here this day, recreating the private Thanksgiving celebration of many years ago when we tried for a total about-face of annual traditions, planning on lunching by the water on crispy fried seafood at Snoopy’s Pier only to find it was closed when we pulled into the empty parking lot. Immediate need forced us to the HEB down the road where we had thirty minutes to find ingredients for lunch, and it seems tradition triumphed after all—rotisserie chicken, Pepperidge farm cornbread dressing, canned sweet potatoes, Ocean Spray Cranberry Sauce, and green bean casserole with the crunch of French’s Onion Rings.  All the savory tastes of the past are placed on the table in record time.

Kitchen Rental Woes

This year, this week, this day, it is Michael’s turn—his week—to cook, and I am game and grateful for anything he decides to do. As we sit watching the Macy’s Day parade he announces that he is going to fix biscuits and gravy for breakfast and we will have our Thanksgiving dinner at 3 p.m. A walk on the beach is also on the agenda.

He immediately discovers the disappointments of kitchen rentals. There is no sheet pan on which to cook the biscuits. No spatula. And no pepper.  He did bring salt. Despite the minor aggravations, breakfast is delicious and comforting, however, a big dash of pepper would have made things perfect.

A Walk on the Beach

Always planning ahead, Michael sets the table for dinner.  I foolishly decide to take a shower and fix-at my hair before heading for the beach.  As soon as we hit the boardwalk I remember why I used to have super short hair for the ten years we kept Island Rose at the City Marina.

Our crystal skies of the early morning have turned gray—you can’t have everything I guess—but we do have the day and the beach and the water. Walking side by side—Michael closer to the water, he is wearing shorts—we find ourselves looking down.  I see broken sand dollars in scattered profusion by the water’s edge.  Michael stops to take pictures of seabirds.

I am drawn to a large earthwork further from the breaking waves where a mom and her son work studiously at this immensely ambitious creation. I walk in back of this compilation of sand and water to get a better picture, snapping away, circling, looking, walking closer, drifting sideways, totally focused on the camera’s screen.

Accidents Do Happen

Suddenly I am no longer standing, but I am wallowing in the sand, my right foot twisted beneath me at the bottom of a hole—which is not supposed to be here—this is sand, a beach, flat.

I curse. Not again. I gingerly move the foot attached to the twisted right ankle.

I hear shouts. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, “I’m sure Michael will discover I’m no longer beside him at any minute and be here to help me.”

Time ebbs and flows. Michael continues down the beach, his image getting smaller and smaller and smaller…

Finally, I heave myself up out of the hole, trying not to limp, ignoring the pain, and walk to the point where Michael has decided to linger, looking at the sea and seabirds. I refrain from telling him what happened—it is an old story—I have messed up too many other walking vacations.  I smile and we continue our seaside stroll.  Turning back, we reach the point where it is time to climb the stairs which will take us over the sand dunes and back to the Sand Castle. Not wanting Michael to see me struggle I suggest that he go first. 

Back at the condo, I know that I need Advil, but Michael is in the kitchen prepping for our late lunch/dinner. I have a secret to keep. Stoically I walk to the couch, pile two pillows at one end, lie down and elevate my foot, and nap, grateful that I am not fixing dinner.

Thanksgiving Dinner

Michael is amazing. Thanksgiving dinner is semi-homemade, but looks like hours of preparation went into it, and in fact many did—at home. Michael has even fixed my favorite cranberry chutney that I love and he is not fond of at all. He has cooked the haricot vert in chicken stock and bacon and it tastes deliciously smoky.

After double helpings all around we settle in to watch the Cowboys vs. Redskins.  We haven’t watched a Cowboy football game since Jerry Jones fired Tom Landry—we hold grudges. However, now that I see them in action, I may become a fan–again.

Back on the Beach

We are an hour into the game when Mike looks outside and says, “The sun is shining.  We have to go for a walk.”

I wiggle my foot, testing.

We walk toward the jetty—my hope is that we stop long before we get there. My ankle isn’t perfect but it does move.

There are families and kids—big and small and tiny and tinier—everywhere. Teenagers stand in the water kissing, their friend cavorts in the waves, acting silly, trying to ignore the romance. Couples walk together, holding hands.  A father watches over his tiny son as he digs and digs and digs. Mother’s take pictures of their babies experiencing the discovery of the sea. Brothers stand beside each other, arms around shoulders as their father snaps a photo. Once released from their pose, they turn and run and embrace the swirling surf.

This place, this day, is an elixir of joy.

11/25/2016 8:56:06 PM