© 2009 Howard McQueen
Dawn has arrived as I find my way out to the end of the Tybee Beach pier.
Sol is just breaking through clouds settled above the oceanic horizon.
There is a near constant fifteen knot breeze, keeping the summer morning abnormally comfortable.
Pelicans glide by hugging the agitated surface - not quite white capped.
Surfers gently bob up and down, sensing and awaiting their perfect wave.
Majestic clouds tower into the polarized blue sky, revealing luminous silver-white linings.
Fishermen bait hooks.
A flock of pigeon arc by overhead.
The roar of surf echoes from the nearby shore.
Turning my back to the ocean, the beach town is littered with motels. I passed multi-level condos on my way to the pier, occupied by vacationers on balconies staring into laptops, some already loudly hurling words into their cell phones. From the pier, a two story pink-sided building announces in one story white painted lettering “Time to Eat”.
Ahhh. A group of surfers catch and ride their chosen wave.
Another formation of pelican effortlessly idle by, their wing tips scant inches from the wave tops.
Sol again peeks out from the clouds and the day noticeably warms.
I turn my back to the town and a magnificent canal glistens with infinite jewels of faceted brilliant light, starting from the edge of the boardwalk and extending to the horizon, merging into Sol. I surrender and merge with this light ... and am called back.
A dark skinned man with a close-cropped shining silver goatee has stopped to greet me. He inquires as to what I am writing, and I read him the first several lines of this (at the time, hand-scrawled) journal entry. He is from India and is Hindu. He says he is 70 years old -- my biological guess -- a trim 62. He speaks proudly of his two sons, both physicians, one practicing at Duke. We speak about Holi, the early spring festival in India where the air and everything is drenched with colored dyes. He smiles deeply in fellowship and takes back up his power walking.
Sol peeks out again over my left shoulder.
A kite is now flying high above a vacant lifeguard station
The rhythm of surfing honors the ocean,
as do the patient and silent pelican and human fishermen.
I stand at or just above the Category Five storm surge mark, having passed this color coded, totem-pole type milestone marker at the pier's entrance. I am reminded that all the human-made forms I have just experienced are not-so-permanent, easily washed away, eroded and reclaimed.
I adore this planet
All this connectedness
To my friend Jim, who works/or did work (so many layoffs these days) at Stingray and Dr. Steve and Eva and all of my blood family and friends in Savannah and elsewhere.