Where the Horizon Lies

I have lived in the Gulf Coast of Florida for 3 ½ years now, and yet, I have not seen a single beach here.  I spent 28 years living in Virginia, a stone’s throw from Virginia Beach and Ocean View. Seven years prior to that, I lived near Buckroe Beach and Grandview.   I started thinking about it today.  The last time I recall walking on a beach was in 2005, when I met my parents at Myrtle Beach, SC for a week’s vacation. 

You see, I can’t walk across soft sand without assistance, and I’ve had that problem since I was in my early thirties.  Back in 2005, my dad was at Myrtle Beach with me, and he knew just how to help me traverse the powdery sand.  I could walk by myself on the hard, wet sand at the water’s edge, and feel the water and grainy mixture of sand, shells, and water engulf my toes.   

My parents went for a walk down the beach, while I stood on the firm, wet sand, watching the sunrise and the gentle waves bank, ebb, and flow.  At one point, they turned toward me from down the beach, and my dad waved at me.  I snapped a picture, and in my head, I thought to myself, it’s as if they are leaving me and saying goodbye for the last time.  To this day, I have that photo, and it brings tears to my eyes because they are both gone now.  I still imagine them walking away forever, and when no one is watching, I wave back at them.

And so, it has been 18 years since I have walked on a beach – any beach.  I long to go and spend just a short while, splashing my feet at the edge of the waves. 

I’m very good at thinking of ways to do things.  I know they have beach wheelchairs, but that is not as simple a solution as you may think. 

First of all, you have to have someone to push that chair.  Second, you have to be able to find a parking place close enough to pick up that chair.  Last of all, you have to be able to get the chair back to where you got it, and get back to the car.  None of these are easy things in Florida, where the parking lots are always full of tourists, most everyone has a handicapped placard, and where I’ve become quite intolerant of direct sun. 

They even have motorized sand wheelchairs over on Anna Marie Island.  However, they only rent those by the week or the day (not by the hour) so it would cost almost $200 for that pleasure, and it still has all the parking and returning issues.  They assume you are renting a beach house, so those are the only places they deliver to and pick-up from.  Beach houses are, of course, only rented by the week or month.

Even without a sand wheelchair, if I had someone able to help me walk on the sand, I could probably still do it.  But that would also mean bringing a folding chair (a very specific one that is high enough for me, because I can’t sit on the ground or the sand and get up safely.)  Once I got there, I wouldn’t have the strength or the tolerance for the sun to stay too long.  And I don’t, stupidly, think the world revolves around me.  It would be quite an expedition to make this happen, with anyone who helped me finding little or no pleasure in the journey.  So instead, I look at the two photos I took the very last time – back in 2005 – one of the foamy water rushing forward, and the other of my parents turning and waving goodbye as they walked away. 

I spent so much of my life struggling to live independently and to rely only upon myself, while simultaneously distancing myself from things I loved because they forced me to be dependent.  With each thing you can no longer do, your world becomes smaller and smaller. While walking on a beach, or swimming in the ocean, lake, or gulf, are distant memories to me now, they are so close that they call my name even when I squeeze my eyes tightly closed, and try to think of mountains, or boats, or bicycles whizzing down a steep hill.  Somehow, it all becomes the sun rising, or setting, across a darkened sea.  And suddenly, I am washed-away, to where the horizon lies.