When the Shoreline Moves Inside You

Mary and I took Buddy, our four-legged shadow, to the south end of DeMartin Beach in Klamath the other day. She found her perch on a bleached-out driftwood log.

She settled in with that air of calm patience women often have when watching their husbands try something foolish. I, of course, was the fool.

I wanted to introduce Buddy to the waves. He’s never been a beach dog. He likes grass, fences, and squirrels with poor survival instincts, but the ocean? That’s another beast.

He trotted behind me with ears forward and tail cautiously wagging—until the waves started their pounding. That sound stopped him cold.

The ocean thundered against the gray sand, rolled back with a hiss, then came in harder. Buddy planted his feet, gave me a look that said, “Nope, you’re on your own, Pops,” and retreated to stand closer to Mary.

So much for our “brave explorer.”

I went on by myself, wandering around the point toward False Klamath Beach. That familiar walk—one I’d made countless times as a boy—was different now.

There was no rock-hopping, no time wasted pretending to discover some wild new land. Instead, I trudged, measured, and slowly. While my knees complained, and my back had its say, I found myself looking at things I once ignored.

That’s when I came across what remained of a sea lion, long gone to time and tide. It lay half-buried among the rocks, reduced to hide and bone.

A somber sight, really—a reminder that the ocean can give life, and just as easily take it back. Not far away, the bleached bones of a couple of birds lay scattered between driftwood pieces.

The shoreline told of endings. It seemed mine, too.

I bent down, stiffly, to pick up two small rocks from the point. A habit from childhood, back when every walk along these shores was a treasure hunt. One rock was smooth and round, the other jagged and rough—like the ocean was telling me, “Take your pick, son, life comes both ways.”

By the time I shuffled back to Mary and Buddy, the sadness had settled in. Not the sharp kind, but the slow, weighty kind that sneaks up when you realize you’ve outlived the boy who once ran across these same sands without a thought of time.

Mary gave me that look—soft, steady—like she already knew what was on my mind. Buddy wagged his tail as if to say, “Glad you’re back, we were worried you’d try something heroic.”

This morning, writing it all down, I can admit it–age has caught me flat-footed. My body doesn’t keep up with my memories anymore, and that’s hard.

The beach I once conquered now humbles me. The child who once lived in my skin is still shouting “Let’s go!” but the old man in me has learned to whisper “Not so fast.”

Still, I don’t want to leave this sounding like a funeral for adventure. There’s humor in it, too. Watching Buddy—the mighty protector—tremble at the sight of foamy surf was worth the price of admission.

And Mary, sitting there as if she were watching a live play titled Old Fool Versus the Pacific, reminded me that growing old doesn’t mean losing your audience. I heard her laugh over the roar of the waves as I quickly high-stepped sideways to avoid getting my sneakers wet, as a rogue wave made haste beyond the darker, damp gray sand I was hugging.

Maybe I’ll never walk around that point again, but at least the shoreline isn’t only out there anymore, it’s inside me. Every walk I ever took, every stone I ever pocketed, every tide I ever raced live on in memory, even if the legs are less willing.

The trick, I think, is learning to enjoy the driftwood seat as much as the scramble over rocks. To laugh when your dog refuses to budge.

To take the small rocks home, place them on your desk, and let them remind you that though the body ages, the adventures don’t vanish—they change pace. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it allows you to sit beside someone you love, with a cowardly dog and an ocean, and call it a good day.