Stringing Shells

Today is one of those drop dead gorgeous coastal days.

Air crisp;
clarity all the way to the horizon;
the sea sparkling, shimmering with sunlight;
the sky solid blue without one wispy cloud to mar its canvas.

Takes your breath right out of your lungs.....and fills it with dreams.

On days like this, I stuff a quick breakfast into my mouth, put my weather gear on right over my p.j.'s and head out. Don't even brush my teeth. No makeup. Don't run a comb through my hair. Lord, it's liberating. Of course, I'm pretty well assured I'm not going to be chatting with anyone. But, even if I did, tough. This is what beach-bumming is all about. And I could do this.....I mean, do this. Like, forever. For a living. So, as I'm walking, beach-combing, shell-seeking, sea-gazing, I'm wondering....how can I make this happen?

And like any beach-inspired person surrounded by brilliance, all kinds of scenarios dart in and out, tumble through my brain as if, well, anything is possible. I imagine stumbling upon a couple of rare sea-washed doubloons, dimpled into the sand, teasing a New York Christie's auction scene, bidders frantic, guaranteeing my dream come true. I quickly dismiss any counter arguments of logic, like, when in the world would a Spanish fleet have sea-wrecked off the northwest coast of the American continent? Quiet, I tell myself....this is my dream. I can have it any way I want.

And then there's the thought that I'll apply for a counter job at Mariner Market in Cannon Beach, become such a valuable employee that I'll soon be managing shifts, and while networking with local merchants I bumble into a magnificent career opportunity as an events coordinator at the Hallmark, or hell, why not, the Stephanie. This is my show after all.

Of course, the topper is the HUGE grant I receive to start a non-profit, a coastal youth hostel, a place to shelter wayward youngsters running away, running to, something.....these kids have already left their mark; angst-ridden transients scraping messages on the tumbled down walls of a shanty barely clinging to the edge of a sea-cliff.....and I would prepare a safe place for them to come and go, and rest, and be listened to, and fed, and hugged, oh yes, deeply hugged by me - the little grandmother (with my hair in a bun)....(oh lord, that's too much).....with my hair in a pony tail....and connecting them to resources, and I'd be writing....oh, yes, can't forget that part...and writing in my little cottage (like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir) that sits adjacent to the hostel....or, maybe is a part of the hostel.....anyway....and writing, while I'm sheltering, and feeding, and listening, and hugging, and walking the beach (oh yes, with a dog).

Oh, I've got it all planned; the whole bit. That's what you do when you walk the beach, collecting shells and thoughts; stringing them together in the magnificence of hope....and a crisp, clear, brilliant sea-scape.