Probably Backwards

The Alabama beach is for sitting. And these dog days, sitters abound where the tide rolls out the blue carpet across the sugary shore. Nearly every beachgoer sits facing South to watch the waves sweep in and out and in again. That is as it should be. To sit and absorb the sight and sound of crashing waves is to rest on Mother Nature’s lap and let the rhythm of her respirations sooth your soul.

Summer beach sitters come from one of two places. About half pour out of the condominium menagerie lining the coast and sit in fancy chairs under fancy umbrellas set out and reserved for fancy residents and their fancy guests. The other half brave crowded roadways, pay for a coveted parking spot, then drag everything they need, a whole lot of what they don’t need, and more than a few things they should have buried to one of the spots between all the fancy chairs and fancy umbrellas.

Some of these folks who make their way from parking lot to beach get pretty creative about hauling their load. All manner of wagons, strollers, carts, and hand trucks dot the sandscape. Some have big wheels and others have bigger wheels. The few with little wheels must be ignominiously dragged through the sand by people with compensatory big arms and bigger legs.

Anyone strolling down the beach can’t miss the myriad wheeled frames standing empty between or behind all the umbrellas and chairs. I hardly notice them these days. Yesterday, though, I witnessed something that made me sit up and pay attention.

The frame caught my eye first. It had the appearance of a burly off-road trike. The elongated metal triangle was mounted on some of the biggest tires I’d ever seen on the beach. Seated in this oversized tricycle was an adult woman. Her mounted plastic chair enveloped her, looking like it had been molded to protect her supine position. Her arms were draped over bulky armrests. Her legs were stretched out before her. Her feet were strapped in place on foot rests.

I thought, at first, that this oddity might be motorized. Then I saw the other woman. She stood behind the giant trike and pushed with all her might. Before I could stir, people responded. They sprang up and rushed to the aid of these two women. After these intrepid heroes-of-the-moment had facilitated the women’s arrival at the water’s edge, they drifted like spores carried by the breeze one-by-one back to their chosen spots on the crowded sands.

The woman seated in the trike and the woman behind it settled into their apparent roles. Daughter and Mother exchanged a few soft words, bright smiles, and a silent moment resting forehead on forehead.

Then it happened. Mother drew back and moved around behind Daughter. She pulled downward on the handles just behind the molded seat securing her beloved child and the front wheel of the giant trike rose into the air. Then, concentrating her considerable strength, Mother spun her daughter’s chariot around. Now Mother and Daughter faced North, not South. They faced sand, not water. They had their backs to the Gulf, looking out, instead, across a sea of faces. Mother strained and pulled backward, drawing Daughter’s chariot into the surf. She moved in perfect harmony with her surroundings. As each wave struck her from behind, Mother held her ground. Then after the wave passed, she took three or four quick steps further out into the water.

The molded shell that surrounded Daughter served to protect…and…to buoy. The frame had been expertly engineered to maintain its orientation in the water. Mother pulled Daughter little-by-little thirty or forty feet out into the Gulf. Surely she must have known that at this particular point on the beach, a sandbar extends just beneath the waves some sixty or seventy feet from the shore. After she had pulled this magnificent throne as far out as she could manage, Mother slipped around the half-floating, half-rolling chariot and faced Daughter again. Mother and Daughter stood transfixed in each others’ eyes, drinking in unspoken mutual joy. Then Mother retreated to the beach.

When she reached the water’s edge, Mother turned to face Daughter. She then placed a worse-for-wear faded fabric beach chair at the edge of the sand and sat facing her beloved child. Daughter rode the waves seated in her chariot perfectly suited for this occasion. Each wave would lift the buoyant chair and its metal frame moving it forward a foot or two before dropping it back gently on its oversized wheels. Daughter sat like a regal queen riding her steed across the undulating surface. She surveyed the crowded beach conferring her blessing on any of her subjects brazen enough to catch her eye. And for an eternal moment, any of us with eyes to see shared the joy.

When Daughter reached Mother where the water met the sand, Mother stood, reached out, and touched her forehead to her beloved’s once more. Then Mother pulled back, made her way around the giant metal trike, tilted it back onto its rear wheels and started pulling in time with the waves once again.

These two women cast a spell on the beach that day. Some of us who were there may never be the same. Some of us hope we will never be the same. We fell under a spell as powerful as any healing balm ever invented. And I know, for I was amongst those healed by the regal queen and her adoring mother.