We see into the life of things

Wednesday 11 February 2009

As predicted today was like 65 degrees. This is really frustrating when you have school on a day like this. By the end of fourth period I was devising all these diabolical plans to skip the rest of the school day and go to the beach. Who knows? --there might have been no one at Chincoteague and I might have got to indulge there. Well-- that was not going to happen for three reasons. The first reason is that I had school, and that's still important. The second reason is that nudity is illegal on Virginia public grounds, including beaches. The third reason is that it's this week.

At lunch I talked Jessy into riding up to Chincoteague anyway. Roger met us at the kerb and we got a lot of our homework done on the 30-minute trip. The beach was almost empty-- we saw maybe half a dozen people there, not including in the parking area. We actually took off our shoes and tights and ran down to the water's edge. Of course the water was icy, but that's not why we had to do it. This is February, and we were barefoot on the beach. How much could that EVER be bad?

We had a walk together, up towards the other parking area and then back down to the car. Both of us reached the conclusion that there must be something in heredity, for Daddy has always preferred a walk on the beach too, to clear his head and to gain some new outlook on life. It was from him that I learned the Wordsworth poem commonly known as 'Tintern Abbey' that says the intimate experience of being in a certain place that is special to you will give you a kind of insight on greater things in the greater world:

'While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.'

Wordsworth says he gets this 'power' from the sights and sensations of the beautiful countryside above the Wye river as he accompanies his sister on her first visit there. I have been to where the poet sat when he wrote this and have some idea of how strong the impression must have been on him. My daddy gets the same kind of refreshment from a walk on the beach. I have known him, when we lived at the house at Lewes, and even before, at Long Beach Island, to go out to the beach and merely stand there, or maybe walk a bit, with no destination, as though, like Wordsworth, he is being rejuvenated just by being there. 'Rejuvenated' is a good word-- meaning to have again the spirit of youth. I think that's what Daddy gets-- a kind of spiritual return to his happy younger years, before Christine died, before the band broke up, before he had to worry about family and money and real estate. To him the beach is like a childhood playground he gets to visit all over again.

I have seen my daddy sit on the beach and stare out at the water, completely ignoring any of the people around him (yes even cute girls in bikinis). He does not go to the beach to see the people, but to see the water. And I think I know what that is like. Having grown up no farther than 50 metres from the ocean shore all my life, I know that there is something deeply spiritual, deeply powerful, about the sky and sea and sand together. I can sit there and stare out at the horizon, imagining myself out there, but we know that's impossible-- there really is no horizon. If you were to go there, there would still be another horizon, drawing you farther and farther. Chasing it is in vain. And yet something in me makes me wish I could sail off out there and chase it forever. And that something is what compels me to come to the beach to clear my mind and to look to the future.

Jessy listened to me talking like this and finally said, 'I wish we could go to Surf City this weekend.'

I stopped walking and just looked at her. 'Do you really want to?'

She did not look at me, only down at her feet, and resumed walking. 'If we could.'

I nodded at once. 'I'll ask Daddy when we get home.'

We looked at each other with wide eyes and smiled. After that we walked more quickly back to the car.

Daddy was actually out on some errands, so when we got home I asked our stepmother. 'I think he will worry about you,' she said. 'I will worry about you. Though after this weather today I can't blame you for wanting to be there.' We both looked out the window and commented on it, and then Mother said, 'Ask him when he comes home and see. As long as you phone when you get there.....'

'Yes,' I assured her. So when Daddy got home I asked him. 'Just to see it,' I said. 'Just to walk on the beach. And we can check on anything you want us to....'

He thought for a long moment and then said, 'Well I suppose Roger can make it up there this weekend.'

'No, Daddy,' I said. 'I want to drive myself. Jessy and I want it to just be her and me.'

He looked at me for a long moment. 'Are you sure?'

I nodded, definitely. 'If you think it's all right.'

My daddy thought for a long moment. His next comment was about the ride, the route, taking the Ferry, me driving on my own up the Parkway and having to recognise the right exit.... Then he had a list of things for us to check on, the house, the dinghy under the house, the ice-cream parlour, our uncle's boat laid up at the yacht club.... Then he suggested that we would have to bring warmer winter clothes, that it was by no means certain it would be this warm this weekend. By this time I already knew we were permitted to go.

Tonight after dinner Jessy came in to my room, dressed in socks, a plain pale-blue man's shirt like the one I use for a cover-up, and, I'm pretty sure, nothing else. I had a fire going with almost the last of the hickory logs and was quite cosy myself. 'Do you still have your warm gown?'

I looked up at her. 'My green one?'

She nodded. She had meant my Colonial-era costume which I've had since before we went to England. Mommy used to love 1700s reenactments and got the whole family interested in that time period. In fact after our new stepmother took us out of school, following the Jesus essay fiasco, she and the two of us used to dress like that all the time, holding our lessons and everything else in our very traditional, all-natural-fibre gowns.

'Yes,' I told her. 'Is that what you're thinking for this weekend?'

She smiled at me. 'Apparently it's what you're thinking too,' she said.

I smiled back. 'So... apparently it's what we're doing.'

A whole weekend by ourselves in our Colonial clothes-- unless of course the weather favours sunbathing on the deck. I cannot wait.

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