The beach in late September is a beacon for those seeking enough solitude to unload their souls while nobody is watching. Metaphysically, we all hope that this minor strip of paradise, with its unabated erosion and saltwater action, can revert us to some purer, easier state of homeostasis. People commonly come off the beach and state, “I feel like a new person!”
Because sleeping is not allowed, we don’t have a vibrant beachcombing tradition of homeless men who eke out a living with whatever washes up. In general, the most valuable thing to wash up is that which washes out—lumber from beach stairs—and this wood is hard to lug and resell. I wouldn’t burn it, either.
The kind of beachcombing we do is sporadic: a cluster of guys with metal detectors gridding out the place for a diamond ring, trucks loading driftwood, me walking at the base of what were once dunes, looking for midden heaps to prospect.
There is nothing fresh in the glass and metal trash that slowly presents itself, falling with a sand avalanche to the edge of the high water mark every time we have a storm. At one point I thought the source had been exhausted, but now its geography has changed and the line of refuse, like that of the clay, undulates and spreads. From the bottles I have found, I can now safely deduce that the disposed vessels, though charming in scale and shape, are veterinarian in origin and very common. While they make nice bud vases, they are of no archeological interest or monetary value.
Considering what gets dropped around the average farm over a lifetime, I walk here hoping more will be revealed before the strata is obliterated by the basements, drainage and cesspools of the current beachfront inhabitant. Today I see evidence that another 2 inches have irreversibly caved. Rather than the entrances, I am looking at the backside of the bank swallows’ nests.
The second half of my walk, I walk the rock line, if there is one. Sometimes there is a lot of trash here, bits of plastic, bits of metal, lures, tennis balls, children’s toys, lone sneakers, sticks. But sometimes you can find beach glass or an interesting shell or stone. All modern-day beachcombers have rocks on our dashboards. You might have to lick the rock to remember why you picked it up, but when you do you set it back on your dashboard and feel lucky again.
Today I found a yellow rock, a bright yellow rock. When I picked it up, it was luminous, lighter than I expected and brittle. Its not-rock-like properties made me smell it. It was slightly petrol, or was I imagining that? I picked up another rock and gave it the sniff test. The two rocks smelled different; maybe the yellow rock was not a rock. I dropped them both. Fear.
“Maybe it’s ambergris,” my mother speculated. Ambergris? Whale puke—specifically, sperm whale puke: To me that sounds as wonderful as diamonds. So I go back and get it, this time bringing a bag, just in case it is from outer space.
on Sep 20, 2011