Getting off track, it seems. But perhaps it only just seems. The water goes around stones, shells, kelp, footprints; but it doesn’t have a destination, a direction, an agenda; it just goes where it goes. Why, then, do we feel that we get “off track?” Is there a track? Or is it all the same track, however it appears to meander, stop and start, reverse, abruptly dart, get entrenched.
I walk and look at the footprints. I don’t want to walk where no one else has walked since the tide came in, intruding on the smooth stretches of sand, but also I don’t want to walk where others have walked, for those spaces seem disrupted, corrupted somehow. I love the pristine surfaces but then hate marking them. Conundrums, contradictions, dilemmas of an aesthetic and philosophical nature.
The kelp pods (are they pods?) crack and pop under my sneakers. I see a pelican for the first time at “our” beach. The skitterers move in groups, looking like speeded-up caricatures of themselves. The sea roars and ebbs — on its eternal track. I pinch myself; I get to see this. It is right here again.