The morning of the reunion begins early. I wake to the shrill caws of the seagulls who are the first to arrive. Their cacophony might become annoying later, but not now. Now I can almost decipher an excited “welcome back” in each cry.
I get up and go onto the deck, opening the salt-pitted screen door and letting it slam shut as an announcement of my arrival.
The sun arrives slowly, appearing to be reluctant to join this reunion. Maybe its undecided about the appropriate time of arrival. Then suddenly it shoots a path of brilliant yellow rays that penetrate through the thick morning fog to brighten the day. Suddenly, this guest becomes the center of attention.
I gaze out to the beach and see it as a pebbled dance floor that lies just beyond the brownish-green reeds of beach grass. The blades of grass are still now, but will later sway gracefully to the beat of the gentle offshore breeze that usually arrives around midday. Small pieces of dried black and brown seaweed have haphazardly collected on the sand. From a distance they resemble crumpled party favors or torn streamers left over from a previous gathering.
The music today is the rolling ocean, white sudsy foam followed by a sea of tones of green and blue, playing rhythmically for me as I stare straight ahead. The sound starts slowly, then flows to a crescendo. The crash of the waves resemble the clash of cymbals coming together. And then, the music softly retreats.
Seating must be arranged for later so I get busy arranging the stark white deck chairs, one or two of which will serve as drying racks for a kaleidoscope of colorful, sopping-wet beach towels. As I continue my preparations I descend the deck stairs to the white -washed bathhouse used for storage. Chips of peeling white paint tell of another relentless winter. Once there, I struggle to untangle the maze of mesh and aluminum beach chairs that were tossed in hurriedly and carelessly last September. These will be the chairs for the guests that will soon arrive, armed with umbrellas, Frisbees, sand pails and sunscreen.
I carry the chairs over the rickety, sun-bleached boardwalk to get to the beach, careful not to trip on any of the warped wooden slats that need to be replaced. I note that some rusty nails have sprouted since last summer.
Suddenly, I drop the chairs in a pile in the sand. The final preparations for the reunion can wait, most of the stage has been set. Right now I need to bury my feet in the soft, pale white sand that is now early-morning cool and damp, but will later warm my soles. And I remind myself of how lucky I am to have another summer at the beach.