My approach to the beach has changed since my threesome outgrew the back seat. Now, husband-dear and I go at sunrise and then again at sunset. In between we hibernate in the AC.
A canvas bag of oversized towels. Milk jugs of water. An ice chest of bottled water. All jewelry safe at home. No make-up. No hair mousse. The Texas Gulf awaits. Cities build high rises. The state builds more highways. But the beach never changes. And its appeal never lessens.
The road that leads to the beach is at first a freeway. Without notice the car lots, grocery stores and malls end and water stretches on either side of a long causeway. The cause way is close to the water and I see men standing chest deep in the Madre Laguna holding a fishing pole. The road beneath us becomes a big bridge and the Intercoastal Canal below stretches to the left and to the right. Soon we are on the island driving toward the little roads that access the beach. The land is flat and businesses pop up left and right. The familiar sign "Bob Hall Pier" welcomes me like an old family friend and husband-dear turns left. Drifting sand covers the road. There is no sign of the ocean. No waves. No beach until the last bend. Then there it is.
The Gulf appears between the dunes. That is when all life stands still. For one moment I cannot breathe. The past doesn't matter and the future has no relevance. I am slow to get out of the car. I just stare. Stare at the waves, the white caps, the expanse. My flip flops stay on the floor board and my feet embrace the sand. I sit on the funny little wood picnic table made of sturdy two-by-fours firmly grounded in the sand until the next storm. Sitting on a throw away bench I face Eternity and our eyes meet.
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