and sinking deeper in the sand.
I am calm now, much calmer than before. I am under the influence of the sea and the abundant life that emerges from the sea,
species evolving from species, each questing for its natural home.
I think of my early ancestors following the moist edge of the glacier, learning to build fires, learning to sew, learning
to cultivate the land. How is it that some became hunters, some gatherers, some fishers, some planters of seeds? Was this
simple adaptation? Did some become farmers because the soil was there, or were they farmers from birth, searching for fertile
soil to till? Did man shape the land, or did the land from which he sprang shape him? I suspect the latter is so, although
I can offer no proof beyond what I sense in these reflective moments when I wander beside the sea.
I feel as though I am an animal with a homing instinct, tending toward the one place on earth that is native to me. I have
spent a lifetime moving toward a specific place—a place called Miramar. The journey has been long and arduous, but it is a
journey that I had to undertake, for I know now that as long as I remained in a place that was wrong for me, I was not in
the real world.
I pass a salt pond where a marsh hawk dips and soars close to the cattails, searching for prey. A black phoebe flits from
a bush and feeds on the wing, seizing invisible insects from the air. A snowy egret wades in the shoals, spearing fish, and
a belted kingfisher hovers above the placid surface before he plunges and momentarily disappears. Far beyond the breakers
a cormorant flies swiftly by, drawing a black thread across the sky.
The birds live near one another; sometimes they mingle—like the quick-footed willets, plovers, and godwits probing the sand.
But they never try to imitate or influence one another; each feeds, flies, and nests in its own distinctive way. And the wonder
of it is that they all thrive.
It occurs to me that perhaps the human race is like the birds—not a single species, but an order of species, each dwelling
in its own habitat. Some of us nest in skyscrapers, some in farmhouses, some in igloos or grass huts, some in riverboats,
and some in cottages beside the sea. I have my habitat and Leo has his, and the trouble between us occurs when one or the
other of us forgets that we aren’t the same kind of bird.
Farther up the beach, I see a woman and a boy hanging on to a dog by its collar. As I get closer, I can see it’s a black Labrador.
Below them a man is standing knee-deep in the water, frantically waving his arms at the surf. He’s shouting, “Here doggy,
doggy! Here doggy, doggy! Come here!”
He turns, pointing into the surf, and bellows at a man standing high on the dunes, “Is that your dog?”
The man doesn’t respond.
As I approach, he turns to me.
“Is that your dog?” he yells.
A sleek black head bobs up in the breakers, looks at us, and disappears below the surface again.
“If we don’t get him out of there,” the man shouts, “he’s going to drown!”
“That’s not a dog,” I say.
The man stares at me.
“Of course it’s a dog.”
“No,” I say, “it’s a sea lion. And you can call him all you want to, but he’s not coming ashore.”
five
girl with a crab
I sleep long and late, and when I awake, the sun is halfway up the sky. I step onto my deck and stretch, and as I do, I feel
the ease of my life sifting through my bones. The ocean is calm today, as calm as the Pacific can be. There is only a faint
offshore breeze, as if sea and land have entered into a temporary truce.
I take to the water’s edge, intending to walk, but my body has a will of its own and it wants to run. After a mile I feel
beads of sweat collecting on my brow. I want to stop, but my body won’t let me—it revels in its surging freedom, and it wants
to keep on going toward that ever-receding point where the sea merges with the shore. My legs tire before
I am calm now, much calmer than before. I am under the influence of the sea and the abundant life that emerges from the sea,
species evolving from species, each questing for its natural home.
I think of my early ancestors following the moist edge of the glacier, learning to build fires, learning to sew, learning
to cultivate the land. How is it that some became hunters, some gatherers, some fishers, some planters of seeds? Was this
simple adaptation? Did some become farmers because the soil was there, or were they farmers from birth, searching for fertile
soil to till? Did man shape the land, or did the land from which he sprang shape him? I suspect the latter is so, although
I can offer no proof beyond what I sense in these reflective moments when I wander beside the sea.
I feel as though I am an animal with a homing instinct, tending toward the one place on earth that is native to me. I have
spent a lifetime moving toward a specific place—a place called Miramar. The journey has been long and arduous, but it is a
journey that I had to undertake, for I know now that as long as I remained in a place that was wrong for me, I was not in
the real world.
I pass a salt pond where a marsh hawk dips and soars close to the cattails, searching for prey. A black phoebe flits from
a bush and feeds on the wing, seizing invisible insects from the air. A snowy egret wades in the shoals, spearing fish, and
a belted kingfisher hovers above the placid surface before he plunges and momentarily disappears. Far beyond the breakers
a cormorant flies swiftly by, drawing a black thread across the sky.
The birds live near one another; sometimes they mingle—like the quick-footed willets, plovers, and godwits probing the sand.
But they never try to imitate or influence one another; each feeds, flies, and nests in its own distinctive way. And the wonder
of it is that they all thrive.
It occurs to me that perhaps the human race is like the birds—not a single species, but an order of species, each dwelling
in its own habitat. Some of us nest in skyscrapers, some in farmhouses, some in igloos or grass huts, some in riverboats,
and some in cottages beside the sea. I have my habitat and Leo has his, and the trouble between us occurs when one or the
other of us forgets that we aren’t the same kind of bird.
Farther up the beach, I see a woman and a boy hanging on to a dog by its collar. As I get closer, I can see it’s a black Labrador.
Below them a man is standing knee-deep in the water, frantically waving his arms at the surf. He’s shouting, “Here doggy,
doggy! Here doggy, doggy! Come here!”
He turns, pointing into the surf, and bellows at a man standing high on the dunes, “Is that your dog?”
The man doesn’t respond.
As I approach, he turns to me.
“Is that your dog?” he yells.
A sleek black head bobs up in the breakers, looks at us, and disappears below the surface again.
“If we don’t get him out of there,” the man shouts, “he’s going to drown!”
“That’s not a dog,” I say.
The man stares at me.
“Of course it’s a dog.”
“No,” I say, “it’s a sea lion. And you can call him all you want to, but he’s not coming ashore.”
five
girl with a crab
I sleep long and late, and when I awake, the sun is halfway up the sky. I step onto my deck and stretch, and as I do, I feel
the ease of my life sifting through my bones. The ocean is calm today, as calm as the Pacific can be. There is only a faint
offshore breeze, as if sea and land have entered into a temporary truce.
I take to the water’s edge, intending to walk, but my body has a will of its own and it wants to run. After a mile I feel
beads of sweat collecting on my brow. I want to stop, but my body won’t let me—it revels in its surging freedom, and it wants
to keep on going toward that ever-receding point where the sea merges with the shore. My legs tire before
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