Those Moving Feet in Postcards 4

The clouds are black overhead, but none of the much ballyhooed rain has fallen. Storm surf pounds the retreating sand, and the sea gulls sit in groups their heads pointing into the wind.

It’s only in the fifties here, but it’s fun to wrap up and go down to stand on the jetty. The surfers are there, scattered along the rocks all looking out to sea. The wind hasn’t picked up to blow the surf flat yet, and they watch each wave with the intensity of a surgeon. As if there is nothing more important than the shape of each wave as it pertains to their lives. As if they will run home to grab their wet suits any moment.

I’ve checked the tide tables myself. It does no good to walk on the beach at high tide. Being a larger than life person, all I do is fight the soft sands as I struggle forward. Low tide now. It gives me a nice flat surface. My sloppy old shoes find just enough purchase on the wet sand to push me forward.

I used to walk three miles a day on the beach, on the streets to work. I miss that swinging freedom a lot. Today I struggle to get around Target or to walk through a parking lot. I had this problem after surgeries before. With a month off my feet, I turn into a breathless slug. I’m hoping that dogged determination will give me back some of my freedom.

But I no longer feel an urge to walk in the rain.

• Himself:Much of his work comes from the east coast, and the east coast is snowed in. He worked only half a day.
• Me: Absolutely delighted in the four boxes of good books brought in to the store by a regular customer.
• Reading: An old JA Jance.
• Balance: Seeing Bobbie today.