Beach Solo

Here is the gunmetal gray ocean, the taffy tinted sand, the brace of cold water numbing the ankles, the relentless sun and no forgiveness.

Here are the middle-aged body surfing men and their adolescent sons tethered to a boogie board.

And all along the beach, tiny children stare at the surf with fear, stepping back, shaking off mother's hand and saying, "No, no." Statues of staid two-year-olds lining miles of shore.

What do they see? What early intelligence do we lose that we ultimately succumb to the seduction of the sea -- that we allow the undertow to spin our bodies, coursing the tumult til spit atop the crest, salted, seasoned, breathless, quaking and jubilant, we desire nothing more than to dive back in.

Maybe we were mermaids and mermen. Maybe the children hold hidden unarticulated memory that we have lost.