#22. The Beach in Winter

In which the E@L searches for the bare essentials of beachiness

I am a student of beaches. I have been studying them since I was four years old, when my parents first introduced me to the ocean in North Carolina. At that age, my study mostly consisted of wading barefoot through the shallows, trying to turn up sand dollars with my toes.

Signs of Life

Later in life, I spent many hours and days perusing the beaches and tidal inlets around Charleston, SC, searching for conchs, or knobbed whelks, Busycon carica, which I studied for my M.S. in Marine Biology. I became adept at interpreting the myriad imperfections in the sand, which for me were telltale signs of hidden life. That pyramid shaped mound was the burrow of a sandworm. A dimple in the sand was the signature of a buried clam. And a small mound with an opening could be the siphon of a conch. Ripples in the sand as the waves receded were the feather-like antennae of mole crabs, otherwise known as sand fleas. I loved to scoop them up in my hands and feel them wiggle around. Then I would place them into a depression I had dug out and filled with seawater and watch them bury back into the sand.

Of course, I spent time chasing and watching the ghost crabs, whose burrows dotted the upper beach and lower dunes. Looking for them at night with flashlights was always a fun activity. My fascination with them was the subject of my first E@L article, titled Ghosts Among the Dunes.  

Most of my beachcombing occurs in the summer when life along the shore is pregnant with productivity. I love to find seaweed washed up onto the beach because it holds the promise of hidden treasures. Hiding among the stalks and globules of Sargassum were skeleton shrimp, a.k.a. Caprellid amphipods, looking like fragments of algae with their stick-like bodies and antennae waving back and forth. Green and black isopods clung tightly to the fronds with their sharp dactyls, using their best camouflage efforts to prevent discovery by predators. Occasionally I would find a cowrie snail, standing out from the green mass with its orange and yellow coloration, bravely indiscreet for such a tasty morsel. But the best possible discovery would be a sargassum fish, Histrio histrio. Resembling more frog than fish, their bodies are covered with leaflike extensions that blend in so well with the sargassum fronds that they are easily overlooked.

Beachcombing in Alaska was an entirely different experience. Alaskan beaches are exposed to wilder waters of the North Pacific or Bering Sea, and major storms in summer or winter create such a turbulent environment that few living organisms could establish themselves on sandy beaches. What did exist there, though, was the flotsam of civilization: lost and discarded fishing gear, boots, bottles and baskets; plastic floats of all shapes and sizes, and other plastic debris from boats, as well as items washed overboard from freighters at sea, including sneakers, toys, and yes, yellow rubber duckies. But the best items to find there were glass floats, mostly of Japanese origin, and made prior to the 1970s, when they were replaced by plastic ones.

The beach in summer is covered with other life too, mostly people, with their towels, umbrellas, beach chairs coolers, books, radios, and other comforts. I don’t mind these, because I’m one of them, but I try to find beaches with as few other tourists as possible, so they won’t intrude on my search for beach treasures. Of course, I enjoy the warmth of a summer beach, a cool dip in the waves, and occasional opportunities for bodyboarding. That’s the reason most people go to the beach in summer.

The Bare Essentials

But the beach in winter is another place entirely; cold and windy, and not conducive to leisurely recreation. The few people present are bundled up like Arctic Explorers. Exceptions to that rule include a few intrepid surfers looking for the perfect storm-induced groundswell, and some wet-suited kitesurfers whizzing through the whitecaps and jumping over the breakers. I watch them with awe and a smidgeon of jealousy; I surfed a bit when I lived on the beach, and I would be doing these sports if I was many years younger, but now my back hurts just watching them.

To visit the beach in winter is to experience the beach in its rawest form. There is nothing extraneous here to experience: no warm breezes to encourage relaxation or warm water for swimming. What remains of the beach are its bare physical properties: waves, wind, and sand. Here one can experience the beach itself without all the window dressing of summer occupants. Few living organisms brave the winter sands without necessity. Ghost crabs that normally scurry about between their hidey-holes have burrowed in for their long winter naps. Terns and plovers that would be hovering overhead have gone south for the winter. Conchs and mole crabs have moved offshore where they won’t be disturbed or exposed to freezing temperatures. Even the shoals of baitfish and mats of floating algae have drifted away to more accommodating climes. The only other residents are the solitary sanderlings, skittering between the waves, trying to keep their feet dry, and the occasional willet, visiting from the marshes and unafraid of the water.

I love to walk on the beach in winter. Instead of searching the sand for life, my eyes are drawn to the water itself. The regular swells rolling in from distant storms entrain my brainwaves into a rhythmic transcendental state. The crashing of waves creates a background of white noise that washes away distracting thoughts. The wind whistling past my ears overwhelms the faint high-pitched squeal of tinnitus, a result of both age and prior life as a rock musician.

Through my feet, I feel the heavy thud of waves pounding the beach before me. It reminds me of several years spent living next to beaches on the coast of Washington, where I felt the nocturnal thumping in my bed as it lulled me to sleep. Now it shakes my bones, reminding me of the power in those waves. They have reformed the beach landscape, carving the summer-smooth platform into banks, drop-offs, and gullies. I must be careful not to walk too close to them, lest they collapse beneath me and dunk me into the swash.

From Darkness to Light

The ocean is not only the largest physical entity on our planet but also the strongest. It has the power to reshape the shoreline, destroy rock cliffs and headlands, sink ships, and wipe away all traces of human construction. Among all human fears, the ocean is scarier than anything else we can imagine. Who hasn’t had nightmares about drowning in its inky depths? About being dashed against the shore by shipwreck? Standing next to the ocean in winter, seeing and feeling its immense power, is to put yourself both at the mercy of the universe, and to experience the feeling of being infinitesimally small and defenseless against it. It is to see something that is ever changing, yet will never change.

The most amazing thing about the winter beach is the light. Low winter sunlight glancing off the waves makes them glow with an inner radiance. As the wave swash recedes, it reflects the cloud-littered sky, enveloping me in an airy three-dimensional lightscape. Pink hues of sunset create an ocean-glow reminiscent of the alpenglow seen in Swiss snowscapes. Transfixed by the scene, I remain gazing at the horizon until the last vestiges of light morph into the purple darkness of dusky twilight.

Then I turn to go, reminded of my insignificance, and secure in the knowledge that the beach, the ocean, and the light will always be. Long after I am gone, and humans have changed the landscape irrevocably or ceased to exist, the beach will endure. Who (or what) will be its student then?

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