Our beaches are being bomb barded almost daily since the end of the first week of the sinking of the Deep Water Horizon with gatherings of people or all stripes: protests, prayer groups, volunteers, rallies for state and national action, save the dolphins, etc. I think we have been the only group that came with a single simple clear intention: deep appreciation, gratitude and humility for the Earth and what was in each other’s hearts, knowing that would produce an adequate product on this day. But because we consciously chose the dawning of a new day, that hour and being just one of another many voices calling people to gather,  the participation was limited. Oddly, I feel there was more heart in our small group  than had we somehow been able to be seen above the myriad of internet, Facebook, etc calls to gather at the water and had drawn multitudes. One good antidote to illustrate was the obvious approachability of the group, which was done by a middle age couple while we were finishing drumming and getting ready to find flotsam and jetsam for our act  of beauty. It was the man who spoke, asking, “Does your band practice early mornings at the beach often?” Cynthia, who was standing wiping sand off here legs, just looked at him smiling and said enthusiastically,” Oh no, we’re not a band! We just came to be with a sick friend.” Then there was a momentary pause, a silence with only the gently cresting waves falling on the shore before he said in a kindly voice, “Thank you for doing this. ” They then walked away a distance, stopped and watched us create “a little red wing bird” out of seaweed.

It was three of us that showed up just as the sun was cresting the hazy red horizon. We were not a glum lot from the get-go.  We drummed quietly only half listening for the pluse, still waking up ourselves and watching as the sun climb quickly through the red zone on the eastern horizon into the grey-blue sky above. Then we talked. Each had l stories from memories of beaches and oceans around the world, contiguously spanning the years from childhood to now. One of the group had grown up in a Navy family and later joined the Navy. Another was a daughter of a first generation Irish immigrant who came to this country to spend a lifetime in Civil Service building forts and structures for the Army at many locations, including some islands, along the Eastern seaboard, including Fort Hancock on Sandy Hook New Jersey that guarded New York harbor during World War II .They were all good memories, funny stories, life filled tales of connection to the water and to the land it rested against. Surprisingly, less time was spent talking on any aspect of recent history  than was spent in silence just sitting and fingering the sand and looking out over the emerald waters that this part of Florida is blessed with. The sand here is sugar white and made of quartz crystals, not ground up corral. It flows down the many rivers that headwater as far away as Stone Mountain Georgia outside of Atlanta and Lookout Mountain in the three state corners area of northeast Alabama, northwest Georgia and southern Tennessee. The pouring of handful after handful between our fingers and doodling in the sand as we listened to the sluicing of the waves against the shore and looked out over the giant mound of water stretching 180 degrees from where we sat seemed to satisfy any purpose our rational brains needed for being up this early and talking with friends at a still largely unspoiled, perfect beach.

When the time was right, we each went our separate ways and gathered seaweed from the line that marked the high water wash of the last tide. Without any real communication between each other, when we came together  we looked around for the proper place to create something with our booty and it immediately became clear it should be at the base of the currently unoccupied life guard station. The name of the structure where we created our act of beauty did not register immediately, but before we were done everything we had been drawn to do we knew was guided by a power greater than ourselves and we were glad for having showed up.

Two hours after we first gathered we held hands, said a small prayer and went our separate ways for our other homes.

Mike Beck, attending with Rusty Gasparian ([email protected]) and Cynthia Galant (copied separately)