Reality: Early morning drizzle followed by chilly, windy torrents. Cold; did I mention, cold? My giant-sized, fluffy red blanket and I step, daily, onto the thick-pillar-adorned porch to admire the angry sea’s spectacular beauty; this week she’s a pounding, twisting, frothy tempest. My blanket-bundled self takes 20 yard walks to the bench at the top of the beach, finds a dry-ish spot to watch the sky for signs of sunshine. Friends arrive, singing “the sun’ll come out, tomorrow…”. My girls, generally hunkered down with their laptops and phones, are otherwise perfecting their omelette and smoothie-making skills. We eat exorbitant amounts of whole-wheat tortilla chips with guacamole dip. We find that Scotty’s fresh flounder tastes just as good in stormy weather as it does in good weather. Thank goodness I remembered to pack the Scrabble board and card decks. And my red blanket.

But still, it’s not enough to see the sea, I need to stand close, near the edge (but not so near to risk dipping my blanket in the surf) ~ so we venture time and again onto the wide, cream-colored coastline and marvel at the ocean’s extraordinary magnificence. My blanket and I enjoy tea under the eaves by the flowering dunes. We read. We take pictures and post them on Instagram. During a break in the unforgiving wind and rain we settle into a comfy spot on the soft sand and attempt to write in my notebook.

Drip.

Drop.

“Oh cruel fate . . . why do you mock me?”

Surrender.

So it’s short walks, no bikes. Ice cream, no warm breezes. Writing inside, not out. Skip the aloe. And despite the lack of shadows for five straight days, we do laugh; and we share toasts to the tides, and, mostly, to each other.

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And then, of course, there’s this. This grand, sweeping, marvelous magnificence of raw power and rumbling passion and crashing, curling waves that pound and push and pull (with equal parts grace and ferocity) on impossibly soft sand beneath never-ending cobalt skies ~ this incredible vastness where mermaids live and giant, finned beasts taunt sailors who chart their course by stars that shine from even more unfathomably large heavens above; all of this, too, will keep one humble.

You work. You love, and play, and learn. Laugh and cry. Scream out loud, shrivel into quiet corners. You try. You do your best, and wear your super-human-hero cape with pride. Even so, you always, always, at some point, find yourself inadequate. Or wrong. Or just unprepared. Because that’s the stuff of life ~ the mystery and the magic, the smooth, the bumpy, the “a-ha’s” and the “oh shit’s”.

We’re not meant to get it right all the time. It’s lovely when we do. It can feel ugly when we don’t. It’s exhausting and glorious (with equal parts grace and ferocity). No matter how high we climb the proverbial ladder, no matter how good, how brilliant, how well-intentioned ~ there will always be something to keep us humble. We’re just travelers, after all. All of us.

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When I was a kid, the crowded beaches seemed to have as many transistor radios as people. From almost every towel and beach chair, New York’s WABC blasted all the top hits…. over and over. Sometimes the biggest hits even got “instant replay” status.

The energy of all this was fun ~ the first 2 or 3 times. It didn’t take long to discover I much preferred almost any beach to these, which were (are still are) popular by virtue of proximity to civilization and a ride-and-game-filled boardwalk.

So I had a mini-meltdown the other day when visiting one of our favorite beaches, with its sprawling stretches of white sand, no commercial riff-raff and one couple who apparently felt that everyone else would appreciate their blaring radio.

I’ll even admit that the song playing at the time of my breakdown was one I kind of liked. But I didn’t want to hear it then, nor the constant noise that would inevitably flow from the little box under their umbrella for the next who-knows-how-many hours.

No. Not acceptable.

I go to the beach for the sand, sun and surf. I like to hear the seagulls squawking, the waves tumbling, the caps of suntan lotion being flicked up and down. I like to see the shells that wash ashore, let my feet get buried by the tide going in and out. I like to dive under the waves, and float on their tops. I like the expansive sky, ships on the horizon, fishermen fishing, even children squealing with delight or building a castle moat.

The pleasures of being at the shore do not include hearing the top 40, or any other choice played at everyone else’s mercy. If you can’t enjoy the beach without it, then at the very least have the courtesy of turning down the volume. (Way down, please.) Or, gosh, how about an iPod? Hello?

So I packed us up and moved as far down the beach as possible, where the intrusive radio could not be heard. And there, I found ~ and made ~ peace. Blessed peace. All was not lost.

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