Sea Treasures

I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.
-- Anne Morrow Lindbergh



Yesterday, I finally got the tides right. The result was a harvest of green glass and pebbles.

Of course, I couldn't resist picking up other colors as well, but green is my mission. When you're walking a beach, head down, examining the many "gifts of the sea,"* there's much to choose from. Thinking of the elegant simplicity of the writing style of the small band of American literary environmentalists, whose work in the '50s, introduced me to the principles of ecology, I was lost in the moment.

Those writers, too, knew the unique pleasure of strolling along the beach, just at the edge of the waves' reach, seeking small treasures. You can't be too greedy about it; the sea will give you what it pleases, when it pleases.



But, persistence has its rewards. I was so engrossed in my search that I barely took note of the others around me -- people and dogs. At one point, approaching a rock outcropping that one can breach only at low tide, I noticed one oddity -- a beach patrol jeep drove past me, up to that spot, then hung a U-y and started back. I waved to the driver, who then stopped and lowered his window.

"We're looking for a lost Chihuahua mix, about 15 pounds, black, black collar, no tags," he explained. "Since I can't drive any further, will you keep an eye out?"

"Sure," I answered, wondering what was in the mix. The only Chihuahuas I'd ever known of couldn't tip the scales beyond, say, six pounds, but whatever.



I rounded the outcrop and continued southward on Ocean Beach. It was windy and the waves were impressive enough that surfers were paddling out to the highest breakers offshore.

Soon, I was into good seaglass territory -- it appears in clusters, similarly sized to the pebbles and shell fragments surrounding it. In these banks of natural (and man-made) detritus from the sea is written a history of the relentless combined power of currents, sand, sun, and waves, grinding everything solid into a softened, polished fragment of its former self.

Sort of like age does to us. Only the core, finally, remains.

-30-

p.s. I hope they found the lost dog.

* The title of one of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's books