Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

The first thing I do up here each morning is to check the sky and the temperature. If the sun is shining, and if it is above 50 degrees [50 degrees? Does he have to rub it in to us sweltering through this heat wave? -Ed.]there is a good chance we can all hit the beach for an afternoon of drowsy omphaloskepsis in the sand alternating with what I believe the mystery writers describe as “hanging on for dear life” while being pulled on skis by a cousin with a devilish look in his eye.

It was while flipping through the pages of some lightweight reading fare on the shore yesterday that I was suddenly taken by an equally inconsequential observation, the kind that arises from the demersal pits of the brain that open up when exposed to the sound of waves. I came to the conclusion that the beach represents an ideal study of how our focus changes as we grow up. First, as children we romp about the beach, but in a very small world - at the water’s edge. We study the sand like a paleontologist who has just unearthed an incisor the size of a stalagmite; we dig and pile up and then run into the water just far enough to dowse our sandy bottoms, then wade back towards buckets, shovels and (if we’re lucky) some unsuspecting frog peeping out from underneath an old fishing boat. We are oblivious to the chattering crowd around us.

As teenagers though, the beach suddenly and wonderfully enlarges, like the first blinding moments of the nascent universe. People of all ages and shapes descend upon us, some with barking commands like “Cut that out!”, others with willowy or chisled bodies designed to induce delerium. We become social creatures, always on the lookout for the next segment of fun. We roam up and down the beach as far as our parents will allow, and huddle together in adolescent gangs as tightly as a group of cave dwellers around a winter fire. We cherish our time together.

Those days for me are long gone, yet I still think of myself as young enough to put on the occasional grass skirt and entertain the gang. Now though, as I relax in a chaise lounge I find myself scanning the entire setting, unable to concentrate on my potboiler. I enjoy staring at the horizon - the distant green forest across the lake, the loons circling around just past the dock, even the kids burying themselves in sandy coffins. The beach is a huge place for me now - a vast cornucopia of sight and sound that is impossible to contain within one view, one visit, one vacation. Life seems to flow in all directions on the beach - including the past and the future, and all the beach asks is that those who come to rest upon it abandon all excess baggage and unleash the imagination. The scene is perfect - all that is missing is the right frame of mind.