I stood alone on the washed, sandy, forlorn beach, as a rain squall was whipped out to sea by a cold, unfriendly nor’easter. In the short time the storm vented its fury on the east coast, it tallied property damage in the millions and claimed at least one life, a motorist who got out of his car to lift a severed power line off the roadway—a young father whose wife gave birth to twins only a week before.
It was autumn and the day had been dreary since daylight, but the waning hours before night showed signs of color as swiftly moving clouds exposed patches of blue, orange and red. Not quite a rainbow, but the makings. I heard the news of the motorist death in my hotel room on the TV before coming down to the beach. The fatality shouldn’t have effected me, as I had no relationship with the deceased—couldn’t even remember his name as I walked amidst sand dunes to the ocean’s edge. Residual drops of the dying storm gently pricked at by face. I like walking in the rain. Refreshing! But this singular news snippet among the many that would flood the ‘all news channel’ during the course of the day, lingered. Such impersonal acts make me wonder about the often incomprehensible events fulfill a typical day, There doesn’t seem to be any rhythm or reason for their occurrence—where is the compassion in Whoever is running the Big Picture. I would like someone to answer, but expected only silence. Still, I have been down this road before and knew there was no value in dwelling on the issue—just an idle thought for someone who takes life too seriously at times. Ah, not so easily dismissed. Moments later as the sun was gaining a foothold in the sky, I rehashed the tragedy as if it was my responsibility to make some kind of sense out of it. I …
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…y the boulder jetty that pierced arrow like into the foaming ocean. The specks were tempting fate by walking on the slippery rocks while churning waters lapped on either side. I could only imagine that they had not heard of the motorist and the electrical wire parable—if so, the story’s lesson was not well received. Until I heard some frantic call for ‘help’, I wanted to express myself–let the world know that I had a good feeling inside, so I shouted “I love this place!” It was my way of letting the world that I relished the “now’ and not missing the hedonistic Summer crowds that had vanished from New Jersey’s cherished play ground. For that fleeting ‘now’, that ‘playground’ was all mine.
From the water’s edge I revolved toward the skyline of Atlantic City which had earlier lost its identity in the mist and fog of the inclement weather. It had now resurfaced.
