Plus the beach has always reminded me of parents, of adults and control. A lack of freedom. Someone yelling to not go in too deep because of rip-currents, because the ocean will take us away and never give us back. The beach also reminds me of a parent who's afraid of sharks and jellyfish, of sea creatures in general and us losing our toes or legs to them.
But these things have never happened despite how deeply we've ventured out into the ocean. Sometimes we've swam far past the point of breaking waves, leaving a frantic grown up at the shore to yell, and it seems we still have all our limbs, and we're still on land; we're not floating out in the Atlantic somewhere. The warnings of adults have always seemed nonsensical to us kids. We see the ocean as it's portrayed in an episode of Spongebob, friendly and explorable. They see the ocean as if it were a watery monster - angry and waiting for us to slip.
Despite these differences, however, several moments of my beach trips are always much more pleasant than others. In my most recent trip, most of my favorite memories involve the evening the adults let us kids walk the 10-minute walk to the ocean without any of them coming along.
Nothing incredible happened on this trip; it was actually pretty normal. I had to get onto Ashton and Justin for talking too loudly and walking through people's front yards on the way there, and we ranted and complained about how strict our family is. But it was also in those first few moments that I realized how much I enjoyed having two other young people on the trip with me, even if they did come with an extra adult.
When we got to the ocean, it was almost sunset, but it had been rainy that day. Walking on the beach was like pushing through a misty dream. A collage of sea glass and broken shells clanked below our feet as we walked and looked for shark teeth. The sky was purple - a blueish tint, and the clouds were literally lined with silver from the sun. People were animated silhouettes in the light, at least until you approached them. Then they became friendly and detailed.
I thought of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man - "to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea," and remembered that Micah was obsessed with that song when I first met him. He always told me it was the perfect illustration of freedom, and now that I think about it, those few moments on the beach with Ashton and Justin were, too.
As we walked on, discussing how much time we'd have to explore, I noticed a dog running into the water chasing a frisby. With the splashing of the water and magic of the day, he looked like a chariot driving into the clouds. At one point I compared the ocean to a Heaven where profanities were not prohibited - after writing my name I turned around and realized my nephews had written several of them into the sand, and they were never sent away or expelled from the sea. They never even had to seek forgiveness.
Sadly, though, we had to cut our exploring short because the tide was coming in. We watched as the water swallowed the shore in tiny gulps, until it had nearly reached the steps, ready to drink our shoes, too. We got to them just in time.
I didn't think about it until now, but that particular trip to the ocean played out as if a writer of magical realism had sprinkled magic all over the realism that is Topsail Island, North Carolina (and most other beaches). A dog turned divine; the clouds turned silver; the remnants of death and aging turned to art beneath our feet. I didn't even mind the houses lining the shore - they, too, looked magical in the natural lighting of the evening.
And I think that's why Magical Realism will always be one of my favorite literary genres and if it's okay to say so, philosophies. It doesn't avoid the truth or create a fantasy - it simply adds beauty and magic to what's already there. Did my experience change the fact that people feel the need to put disgusting houses all over what should be considered nature's territory? No, but it made them a lot more enjoyable to be around.
But the magical realism of real life can be created by more than just sunsets and weather. It can be a scientific discovery (Richard Dawkins refers to science as "the poetry of reality," and I've always liked that). It can be the way the world looks when you're tired and everything is funny. It can be the presence of someone you really, really love. And it can even be a certain mindset. These are the things that make an experience transcendent and life meaningful. And the very best thing about magical realism (which, in this case, was nature itself) is its ability to create a new world without ever leaving the old one. The magic only adds -- it never takes away.
Nothing incredible happened on this trip; it was actually pretty normal. I had to get onto Ashton and Justin for talking too loudly and walking through people's front yards on the way there, and we ranted and complained about how strict our family is. But it was also in those first few moments that I realized how much I enjoyed having two other young people on the trip with me, even if they did come with an extra adult.
When we got to the ocean, it was almost sunset, but it had been rainy that day. Walking on the beach was like pushing through a misty dream. A collage of sea glass and broken shells clanked below our feet as we walked and looked for shark teeth. The sky was purple - a blueish tint, and the clouds were literally lined with silver from the sun. People were animated silhouettes in the light, at least until you approached them. Then they became friendly and detailed.
I thought of Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man - "to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea," and remembered that Micah was obsessed with that song when I first met him. He always told me it was the perfect illustration of freedom, and now that I think about it, those few moments on the beach with Ashton and Justin were, too.
As we walked on, discussing how much time we'd have to explore, I noticed a dog running into the water chasing a frisby. With the splashing of the water and magic of the day, he looked like a chariot driving into the clouds. At one point I compared the ocean to a Heaven where profanities were not prohibited - after writing my name I turned around and realized my nephews had written several of them into the sand, and they were never sent away or expelled from the sea. They never even had to seek forgiveness.
Sadly, though, we had to cut our exploring short because the tide was coming in. We watched as the water swallowed the shore in tiny gulps, until it had nearly reached the steps, ready to drink our shoes, too. We got to them just in time.
I didn't think about it until now, but that particular trip to the ocean played out as if a writer of magical realism had sprinkled magic all over the realism that is Topsail Island, North Carolina (and most other beaches). A dog turned divine; the clouds turned silver; the remnants of death and aging turned to art beneath our feet. I didn't even mind the houses lining the shore - they, too, looked magical in the natural lighting of the evening.
And I think that's why Magical Realism will always be one of my favorite literary genres and if it's okay to say so, philosophies. It doesn't avoid the truth or create a fantasy - it simply adds beauty and magic to what's already there. Did my experience change the fact that people feel the need to put disgusting houses all over what should be considered nature's territory? No, but it made them a lot more enjoyable to be around.
But the magical realism of real life can be created by more than just sunsets and weather. It can be a scientific discovery (Richard Dawkins refers to science as "the poetry of reality," and I've always liked that). It can be the way the world looks when you're tired and everything is funny. It can be the presence of someone you really, really love. And it can even be a certain mindset. These are the things that make an experience transcendent and life meaningful. And the very best thing about magical realism (which, in this case, was nature itself) is its ability to create a new world without ever leaving the old one. The magic only adds -- it never takes away.
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