I always have the feeling of being... Off-balance. The saturated sand maneuvering it's way between my sun-boiled toes, and all the time my thoughts mimic the swirling and bubbling of the rhythmic waves not ten feet away: and yet I feel off-balance. For most vacationers, this is the perfect spot to slather on some sunscreen, run to the ocean,--- boogie board in hand--- dip one toe in the water, and hightail it back to the beach. It's peaceful, they say. The "epitome" of tranquility. For me, however, I look at the uneven sand and the crashing waves--- and, then, to the people. It is unnerving how much one can learn by sitting and waiting. If I look hard enough, people's personalities, are sifted to the surface, much like conch shells revealed by the vigorous breaking tide.

I wake earlier than all the beach-goers in my condominium, and drag my old, battered lawn chair, through gravel, then dirt, then sand, to stake my land. With a huff I settle down for another eventful people-watching day. From my red lawn chair, I see into souls like a physic into her crystal orb.

An old women passes by. Her hair is thinning and pulled back in a tight, gray, mess-of-a-bun. She is searching for something, I can tell, and she carries with her a blue bag. I hear the clanking of shells as she walks. She's one of those, the oldtimers as my sister likes to call them. I prefer the term early bird. I admire these people, the "go out 'en getem" types. They make a plan, and always follow through--- making sure to be early. To get the first pick, the first chance in life. As I sit here and think, even now, the lady is picking up her first catch. A beautiful rose and peach colored conch, about half a foot long, with a smooth covering. She hobbles along and soon, is out of my view. If I wanted to, I could have gotten that shell. Was it that I was too lazy? It doesn't matter now, here comes another person.

This one's middle aged. A man, I think, I'm too far away to be sure. He stands up tall with a slight arc to his back. The way he holds his chin, tilted up slightly, suggests that he is a young man of high class. He has no time for petty things like shell-searching. As I watch him, he does not look down once. Not once. I feel a slight breeze and the sun is just high enough to begin to heat the yellowing sand. It is the perfect day to walk along the beach, and yet.... He hasn't looked around, he has not felt the crisp wind caress his face, and he will never stop to "smell the roses," as they say. So why is he on the beach.

Maybe to escape a house full of unpaid bills and screaming children.

Maybe to be alone on a conference call.

Maybe he is killing time before he has to give his wife the bad news; he lost his job.

His eyes are blind to the beauty that surrounds him and he keeps up his brisk, troubled pace as he walks and walks until he is just a singular speck in my range of vision.

I hear a child, now. Ah, children. So loud, so rambunctious, so...so.... aggravating! But, one touch from their smooth, rolypoly fists, and you melt inside.

A little brunette, in a watermelon bathing suit, runs towards the ocean as fast as her little legs will carry her. She trips and falls, but--- every time--- picks herself back up and resumes her trek to the sea. Her mother, tired and bedraggled, trails behind her, hoping for some peace and rest.


"Lizzie, Liz? Honey, come here. What are you doing?"

"Mama, I'm... I'm gonna go to da wader! Joey tolded me about the smells! I want one, too!"

"The smells... Oh! You want shells? Well, here. I found this pretty clam---"

"No! Lizzie want a conch. A conch. Like Joey!" the little girl screams, and runs off again in the direction of the water.

The mother sighs and hurries after, just managing to catch her little girl before another wave crashes up against the beach. I note the bags under her eyes, and the tired way she walks.

"Listen, Lizzie, sweetheart. I don't think there are many of those left. Look," she says, pointing farther down the coast where the old lady is walking with her bag. "She came earlier, before us, and she probably got all of the good shells."

"No!" the little girl squeals, and, once more, runs off in search of her precious conch. I understand the mom is tired. In her experience, she knows the good shells are usually taken first. But, why tell that to a child? Let them dream. I do see where she is coming from, though. It may hurt when she doesn't find what she's looking for; the mom is just trying to prepare her daughter for this. But, What if she does get lucky and... Aha!

The little girl runs back. "Mama! Mama! Look what I found!"

Its another conch shell, just as pretty as the first found. The girl cradles it in her arms, almost like a baby doll. Her brown eyes are wide with joy and wonder at what she has discovered. In spite of all odds, she has found this treasure, she was unflagging in her search.

Through all of these stories, I begin to ask myself: who am I? Am I the early bird? Do I prepare and plan ahead of time, knowing that I will reap the cream of the crop if I do? Or am I unawares, like the young man? Focused on the problems and the past, rather than the here and now. Could I be similar to the young child? Fervent and thorough in my search, knowing that I may never get what I'm looking for, and ignoring all discouraging voices? Or, at last, am I the mother? The experienced mentor, trying to look out for others and keep them from the same fruitless quest that disheartened me so many years ago.

No, no.

I am none of these. I am a reporter. An observer, if you will. I see and study others, but not for my sole benefit--- but to share. I believe it is better to be the reporter: better to invite others to ponder...


So, the question is not, who am I?, but, rather....

who are you?