The beach attracts creatures of every sort: two-footed, four-pawed, finned, furry, feathered, scaly, slimy, slithering. With local animal trackers, I’ve trailed rabbits and raccoons, geese and gulls, deer and otters to observe how they “do beach.” But I never thought of looking at humans in the same way.
According to the California Coastal Conservancy, two-thirds of the state’s adult population—some 20 million men and women—visit a beach at least once a year. Even if they never set toe in water, nearly nine in ten Californians describe the beach as “personally important” to them.
From near and far, beach-goers arrive with stuff—lots of it: oversized umbrellas, folding tables, day tents, water wings, coolers, kegs, balls, towels, pails, shovels, and copious amounts of food. Fewer bikinis and Hawaiian shirts appear in foggy, wind-whipped Northern California than on SoCal’s sun-kissed shores. Yet amid shapeless hoodies and sweatshirts, I’ve seen barefoot brides with white veils riffling in the breeze; women in burkas, saris, and nuns’ habits; men in tuxes and tunics; toddlers in nothing at all, coated with sand like sugar cookies.
The beach’s ever-changing mixtape features surf symphonies, cawing gulls, barking dogs, roaring sea lions, a fog horn’s blare, and snippets of salsa, pop, rock, and country. Out-decibeling them all are the primal shrieks of children as they boomerang in and out of the waves, leap, run, and scoop trenches and pools to catch the surging tide.
Suitors serenade sweethearts with anything from lutes to ukuleles. Gymnasts somersault. Dancers pirouette. Yogis meditate. Beachcombers scour the water line for sea glass, sand dollars, shells, and pebbles rubbed smooth as marbles. Others sunbathe, hike, jog, bike, swim, boogie board, body-surf, kayak, throw frisbees, spike volleyballs, play catch, swap stories, read, ride horses, take selfies, celebrate, commemorate, walk dogs (and the occasional llama), or simply stare at the hypnotic horizon.
As the day progresses, beach-inspired marvels appear. Master builders heave driftwood into makeshift shelters.
Artisans-in-sand fashion castles worthy of a mermaid princess.
High above a giant octopus unfurls its tentacles.
Closer to earth bubble-makers float translucent tubes of light that shimmer in mid-air.
A great equalizer, the beach pays no heed to age, gender, education, occupation, appearance, status, income, or politics. Discriminating against no one, the sun sparkles; the waves tumble; the sand welcomes. In our smallest cells and deepest souls, we feel at home. Perhaps something ancient, some remnant of our earliest ancestors, stirs within us.
“There is no wider panorama than what we see when we look outward from the beach,” Wallace J. Nichols wrote in Blue Mind, the pioneering book that showcased the science of water’s beneficial effects. “Walk along the water. Move across its surface. Get under it. Sit in it. Leap into it. Listen to it. Touch the water…Fall more in love with water in all its shapes, colors, and forms. Let it heal you and make you a better, stronger version of yourself. You need water. And water needs you now.”
It certainly does. As cliffs erode, sea levels rise, and climate change accelerates, the sandy frills at the continents’ rims are disappearing. Non-profit organizations, such as the California Coastal Trail, BeachWatch, Surfrider Foundation, and the Ocean Conservancy, are working to protect our endangered coasts. The urgent question facing all of us is what we can do, not at, but for the beaches that we hold so close to our hearts.
World Blue Mind Day is July 24th, a time to remember Wallace J. Nichols, father of the Blue Mind Movement, who died in June.
