Words
I think it’s time I told you about one of my rituals. You know rituals, right? Those arbitrary routines we all have- they’re pointless, but if we don’t do them, we end up feeling lost like a ship without an anchor floating away in a vast deep sea. So we put on our socks before our underwear, listen to the news while doing the dishes, and other useless habits all to keep at least one foot on dry land. It’s fitting then that this ritual is about a beach.
While some rituals are done daily, this one is done annually around my birthday. It’s a leisurely four-hour drive to this beach, so I tend to make a weekend out of it, but it’s probably not the kind of beach you are expecting. Here, the waves don’t gently wash to shore; they’re white with fury as they smash onto land and the rocky spires offshore. Swimming in these waters would mean death. Cut to ribbons on jagged reefs or freeze in the icy current. Still, like the sea birds who nest on those offshore spires, humans flock to this place, but not for the spit of land where my ritual unfolds. Towering above the seashore on a rugged cliffside sits a pristine white lighthouse whose rotating amber glow shines for miles on clear nights. Like moths, travelers make their way to this light and the obsolete obelisk only to snap a quick photo before moving to another coastal attraction. Most don’t bother to take the weathered wooden staircase down to the shore; they would rather worship a monument to mankind than witness a wonder of nature.
By now, you must think I’ve painted the full picture of this restless coastline, but there’s more. You probably figured smooth and white, or coarse and tan sand blankets the ground, but in fact, there is no sand - only rocks. Smooth and black as the void, they shine like stars when wet from the tide. These stones range in size from football-sized to pencil-tip, but you won’t find a sharp edge among them. Those belligerent waves have worn them down for millions of years and will continue to do so for millions more. You can hear this slow passage of time when the relentless waves retreat to the ocean only to strike: a soft applause for the fortitude of nature and persistence of time. This natural ovation, caused by the sea seeping out of every crevice, tumbling and polishing the stones as the water flows, echoes off the cliff wall behind the beach, filling the air with this hypnotizing sound, making you feel like you’ve found yourself trapped in a vortex while the salty air fills your lungs. This is when my ritual starts.
After letting the sound wash over me, I reach into my pocket, pulling out a black smooth stone. Smaller than a football, but larger than a pencil tip, the word “pebble” is most fitting. The pebble has been with me since the last time I made this pilgrimage. Holding the pebble in my hand, I let its smoothness dance in my palm as I think about our time together over the past year. The ups, the downs, and how, despite my best efforts, time continues to tick away with as much mercy as the mighty Pacific. Then, with all my might, I throw the pebble into the ocean with the conviction of knowing the year away from the harsh elements provided a brief but welcomed reprieve for the pebble. Before leaving, I comb the beach for another pebble and put it in my pocket. The ritual is now complete.
Once I die, my family will come to claim my belongings and find a black pebble. For them, it will be nothing more than a stone, insignificant compared to the photos on the wall or the money in the back. And in a million years, when football stadiums and pencils are long forgotten, aliens will vacation here and admire the black sand beach as extraterrestrial archaeologists ponder the ruins of the lighthouse. Perhaps one of them, with a keen eye, will notice that something is missing.