2021, the second summer of COVID. I was hungry for human contact that steeped beyond my tiny world. I must have been radiating that vibe because my early morning beach walks were filled with surprise encounters. The humans I met regularly during these walks seemed completely free and eager to share with me their grand claims about the universe and their profound theories about the ways of the world. They were all sharing a bit of themselves, revealed to a total stranger. There must have been something in me that drew them out without fear of contradiction or challenge. Some people I saw every day, others for one moment, not longer than that.

To be fair, in this second summer, I emerged shell shocked from confinement. Certainly, I connected with people on Zoom calls, but those meetings like I was watching a movie with some friends cast in unfamiliar roles. I was distracted watching myself watching everyone else.  None of it felt real.  As the months wore on, my colleagues turned off their screens. It was too much exposure and not enough real exchange. We all dove into a huddle with ourselves, it seemed.

 Exchanges with strangers on the beach felt like the only true contact I had, and I relished these. I was open and eager for spontaneous conversation to lighten my day. Until that point, I was never that person to begin a conversation with a stranger. I would smile and nod but no more than that. However, based on the conversations I was having, I seemed to present myself as a 72-year-old naïf, like someone brand new to the world. People told me stories and I was enchanted.

Narragansett beach between weather patterns

One woman, I will call her Hailey, was always splendidly adorned, as if she were attending a party with others similarly dressed. Her disappointment with dress code of the rest of us beach bums was obvious. She sported a giant gold necklace, evocative of a Roman gladiator, and wore well-fitting matching tops and tights. She had the excellent bearing of someone who was not only born into money but also married into it and likely earned some her own. She spoke of afternoons at the Club. She told me about her friend, Billie, her dyspeptic dog, and her former husband who met a fitting end at a hospital in the Philippines. Maybe, this was interesting to me because my father had served there in World War II, although she didn’t know that.  Hailey kept asking me if I knew people from the Club, “Do you know Marsha Dawson?” “Have you seen the Clements since they came back from Florida?” Nope.  Never. I didn’t even know there was a Club. She shared a story about an albino deer who was especially fond of her. Maybe, albinos are just that way, like some dogs are people dogs and some deer are people deer. This deer had so much regard for her that he never ate her hydrangeas. He also hid from the guests when she was entertaining, keeping him exclusively hers.  He sounded like an ideal combination of a gardener and a younger boyfriend. 

As the summer wore on, we stopped on the beach to chat every day. No matter how early I arrived, she boasted that she was there well before sunrise. (At the of beginning of summer, that would be about 4:30 in the morning). No matter how far I had walked, she had walked farther and faster. No matter what I had discovered on the beach—sea glass, an egg from a lesser tern nest abandoned on the beach, fishing lures caught up in seaweed – she had discovered other better things just the day before. How did a beach walk get so competitive? I was tempted to wear a necklace myself made of shark teeth and shrunken heads, just to show her that I was interesting, as well. 

Another morning a woman paced one stretch of the beach over and over again, head down and picking at the sand, like an egret looking for food. I learned that she collected sea glass. These people are easy to spot once you know what they are looking at and looking for. I do a lot of beach exploring on my own and will pick up anything of interest. We chatted about sea glass and the perfection of those mornings. I remarked to her about a lovely violet piece of sea glass I had just found, and she replied, “Well, of course, you did. The universe offers these pieces to you, and only you, when the glass is ready to be found, not a minute sooner.” I could have countered with my own analysis, but some minutes in our lives are best spent letting go and listening to how others see the world. She then passed on a chant to me (and only me) and told me how much her dog loved my vibe. I liked his vibe, as well, I suppose. I think he really appreciated that I knew how to scratch his ears but that is part of our vibe together, I suppose, for some of God’s creatures, anyway. 

Another woman with a scarf wrapped around her neck and I smiled at each other. We were down at the far end of the beach, dazzled by the light on the water, where the river empties into the bay. The currents and the tides flowing in the opposite direction make for exquisite patterns with light and water and sand.  After a few minutes of shared bliss, we acknowledged that we were sharing a beautiful moment. I broke the silence. I said I had seen her yesterday for the first time and she told me in a low voice that she was living out of a van, just like the movie, Nomadland. ^[1] She was just recovering from melanoma surgery on her neck and chest, aiming to enjoy the day’s light without further damaging her skin. She lived in New Mexico and was visiting her sister who was dying of cancer. This woman was convinced that the cancer was self-inflicted, the result of unresolved childhood trauma. She observed that we can be both victims of trauma and perpetrators, as well. She couldn’t bring herself to care for her sister like she wanted to. Leslie felt she was battling for her own life in the company of her sister. She was bristly about human company although she commented on my gentleness and openness. She also liked my energy. 

On the same day, I ran into Tim who practices meditation on the beach. He has a lovely beard and a kind smile. He invites me to join him. I pass and claim that I do a walking meditation. He salutes that intention with a small bow of his head. My next encounter was with an older couple I had been seeing for a few years now. They have a European accent which despite lots of conversations, I have yet to identify. She is wearing a pair of short orange overalls which I recommended to her last year after she complemented me on mine. She said just a few years ago she would have never worn something so comfortable and utilitarian. I congratulated her, nearly hugged her actually. We are always growing together as humans; there is no other way.

For two years now, I’ve seen a lovely couple who are here on summer weekends. They swim at the end of Narrow River floating with the current, into the ocean where the waves guide them to safety. We comment on the wonder of this perfect day, just as beautiful as the day before and the day to come. “How can this be?” I ask. “How can things be so good?” Greg answers, “Gosh, I am so good, there should be two of me.” Exactly. Me, too.

My daily rounds were topped off by speaking with David, a patent attorney whose wife has multiple sclerosis. He so wishes she could join him on his walks. When she does, she is completely exhausted, but maybe in a good way, he thinks. We talk about sea glass which he also collects. “How do you know when you have collected enough?” I ask. “Do you have a plan for it when you die”? He has asked his children to mix the glass with his ashes and to dump both in the bay. That idea really appealed to me. This may be illegal, he fears, not the glass, but certainly the ashes. Legal training sometimes makes you too aware, I think. That sort of thinking can stifle your dreams.^[2]  

I can say that this daily practice of encountering strangers has added immeasurably to my life in surprising ways. We encounter so many people in so many ways that they can blend into an undistinguished crowd of “people I don’t know.” But each of them has a story and a perspective. Those minutes together are improvised stories, an exchange that brings us both to the present and keeps us here long enough for a true encounter. These are blessings in each morning. 

^[1] Nomadland is a wonderful film with a perfectly scored soundtrack. 

^[2]  The EPA has a policy about burial at sea. Cremated remains must be disposed three miles off the coast and reported to the EPA. You cannot simply toss remains off the side of a fishing pier or take them along with your lunch on a nice kayak paddle. I think the Mafia must have scared the EPA into regulating these burials at sea, even cremated remains. They are silent on sea glass.