Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.

Dreams of the Borderland

Safety

I am drifting toward sleep in a tent just over the dunes from the beach. I am nestled in an old

comforter. The sand beneath the tent is very soft and I have adjusted it carefully. It cradles me like

a pillow. I am very cozy in the cool night, enjoying the constant and caressing rush of the waves

as I doze, reviewing a day spent floating past the breakers under the hot sun and blue sky. The

tent breathes, tugged by rhythmic air from the ocean. I breathe with it, slowly, catching the

charcoal scent of the remnants of my campfire, hearing it crackle and spit faintly as the breeze

stokes it. A foghorn calls out low, penetrating the waves and the wind and the dark. It comes from

the lighthouse at the

manmade

promontory of rocks

out on the shoals.

Every now and then I

hear the low voices of

other campers. I find

the constant motion

of the night

reassuring. I feel

totally safe and at

peace here, like a

baby being rocked,

and I am lulled to

sleep.

In the morning I wake

early to the rising

heat of the sun

through the walls of the tent. The gulls that are playing with bits and scraps just outside take wing

as I emerge. Eventually, I make my way to the beach and there twist in my umbrella, lay out my

mat, and park my chair. This day I spend doing nothing, watching the waves, fascinated by their

endless, brilliant, rolling gleam just before they crash. I try to fix on the pattern in the jostling

reflections of the ocean surface, but never quite do.

I walk in the gentle surf and scoop up little clams into a clear plastic bottle. I add sea water and a

small amount of sand, and roll my miniature aquarium around, watching the tiny clams adapt to

this "surf." They dig in immediately however they land, bury themselves halfway in on edge, and

poke their siphons up high into the water. I roll the bottle over and over and watch them quickly

reclaim their positions. They do not stop to consider what fate this is that is tossing them about.

They do not concern themselves with what message they should be perceiving in all of this. Over

and over again, they simply act at once to right themselves, to assume their favored posture in

their totally chaotic, tumbling universe. I realize that I can be more like that, righting myself

immediately without concern for the source of any disturbing event, living right now. Eventually I

pour the clams back into the tumbling foam, where they are certain to be at home.

In my beach chair in the shade of my blue and white umbrella, I am so much at rest, so still for

such a long time, that the crabs begin to emerge from their little burrows in the sand. At first I just

have a sense of motion. Then I see their periscopic eyes peer out. If the coast seems clear, they

run out quickly across the high tide mark to look for tidbits. Any motion or seagull's shadow sends

them scurrying back to their hideout, only to peek out again. As I become more familiar with their

methods, I notice that there are at least a dozen crabs of this sort in plain sight, dodging, racing

about, and freezing in place. They spend at least as much time hiding as they do scavenging.

They do not appear to get much done, but it is enough to survive, apparently. It amuses me to

think that they have probably been running around in front of me for some time. Their habits are

the winning strategies of long evolution. Take a long look. Pay attention to everything else. Any

doubts? Go home. I realize that I often use these strategies myself, with no little impact on my

productive time. But I get enough done, apparently.

Some distance down the beach there is a larger motion. A small troop of wild ponies has arrived,

trotting across the sand. They are variations of honey brown and white and gray, with long

contrasting manes. They are short and stocky, but bring a commanding presence to the beach.

For some time, this group mills about majestically, flirting with the surf, ignoring beachcombers,

unimpressed by sunbathers. They are free and have not had cause to fear. They shake their

manes at each other, and gallop back along the beach in simple joy.