A glass jar, gathering dust, holds the sea-side treasures of an accidental tourist "beachcomber" - a priceless, worthless collection of sand polished "gems" - revealed to a solitary explorer by lapping waves.
I was born an accidental tourist, into a military family. We traveled so much. My earliest memory of the seashore (perhaps age of five?) was from our brief time living in an old squirrel infested two story cottage in Massachusetts, about a quarter mile from the beach. Access to the shore required navigation down a steep stairway built into a rocky cliff.
Sometimes it was hard to discern where the ocean ended and the sky began as we walked from the cottage toward the sea. The idea that, even a quarter mile away, you could see and smell and hear the ocean - was a statement of its greatness.
The beach had its own calling. Despite the long walk (for a young child), the precipitous access, and the "god-like" fury of its storms, this little boy was drawn, cautiously at first, to the beach - with fascination.
Dreams In A Jar
I wasn't much for sand castles, though I built my share. Swimming in the cold Atlantic held little appeal. I did swim, but always - in the deep recesses of my imagination - there lurked unknown monsters beneath the dark waters.
I preferred the beach at waves edge or wading in tide pools or bounding over the many angular granite boulders - barefoot. I loved the many textures of sand, wet and dry, between the toes of my perfect, strong, agile, calloused feet.
I loved the meditation of immersing myself, sun warmed, in exploration of this solitary - rock guarded - sandy sanctuary. Few people came here and it was often all just for me.
Life outside of this beach didn't make sense; there was turmoil, a constant "unsettling". The relationship with my father was strained. He seemed like a stranger - and somehow - I don't think I liked him . . . at least, for some reason, I felt anger toward him. Looking back now, there is little doubt that he was not my true, birth father.
From an early age - I instinctively cultivated my intuition. My intuition became a valuable tool in my unsettled world. I was born, by accident, an "accidental tourist" into a troubled home. I lived in over twenty houses and attended twelve schools in twelve years. I fought countless, win-less battles over my attempts to control any aspect of my life that I could. I withdrew - as a controlling measure, overwhelmed, by the pain around me. The constant upheaval; two alcoholic parents; a recipe of pain, anger, fear and isolation - I was driven into a place I call "an absence of love".
It seemed the only way to survive was to place myself into a cacoon and hope, upon some age of emancipation, that I might emerge from that cacoon into some new world . . . of happiness?
But, based on my childhood, I was clue-less as to what a transformed life of happiness might be - or how to make one. Instead - I emerged from my cacoon damaged; warped and barely able to fly. And so, the armor came back up.
"But, I Digress"
I wanted to be a beachcomber.
In those early, pre-teen days - when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up - I announced that I wanted to be a beachcomber. My grandmother quickly informed me that "those people" were lazy bums; no future or ambition. This was not a way to make a respectable living (if any money at all). I suppose she was right . . .
I turned 55 years of age three days ago. Maybe this adds to the impact of my reminiscing over my "jar of treasure". Oh, good grief! - lets get on with this jumble of old bric-a-brac.
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Of course, I often brought home my beach combed treasures in those early days. But, those keep sakes disappeared over the years and miles - as we traveled from the East coast to the West, mid-West, North-West, South-West and Germany and the Philippines and back again. Home was no-where and every-where, but I seemed to have nothing to hold on to. In every way - I was adrift.
The Current Collection
I'm not sure how old my current beachcomber collection is. I realized over those early years that larger items such as drift wood and larger shells would not make it. I would have to specialize in modest "pocket" size collections; tough little keep sakes that I could toss into an old sock stashed away in a dresser. Intricate, delicate shells were not added to my collection. I would rinse them in the surf, marvel, and place them back in the sand - such fragile beauty would not survive in my life. I determined early on that many things - though desired - must be denied. Only modest attachments - like these small surf toughened calcium, glass and rock would survive the lonely journeys I traveled. My controlling, protecting nature did not want to risk attachment that might suffer loss or abandonment. Living small was safer.
Maybe my approach to collecting shells reflects my approach to living my life; live small, armored and unambitious. To borrow from a song - it seems my life has been spent, "Sadly in search of - and one step in back of - myself and my slow moving dreams".
Store bought shells, sold at the many tourist traps, might be prettier, complete in form - but they would hold no "true" value for me, not like that carefully selected surf drenched bit of mother-of-pearl discovered and combed from the sand by my own hand and eye. A keep sake - a reminder - that I really was there - on that beautiful shore - capturing a treasured moment of joy. A happier moment in this life of an accidental tourist.
I think this collection just might reach back to 1966, when I was sent to live with my grandmother in Massachusetts at the magic age of "sweet" sixteen - when my anger toward my father had reached a boiling point.
I was "messed up"; a stupid teenager, full of anger - a package of damaged goods. My grandmother tried so hard, in so many ways, to "reach" me. But, my brilliant intuition saw her as manipulative and controlling (probably the same qualities that drove my mother from her). So, I rebelled (very age appropriate) against the only chance I had to be healed. My grandmother gave me one of the last years of her life - looking back - I believe she did so - with love. I saddens me to think about how I disappointed her. I'm sorry Grandma.
I found peace - escape from my adolescent madness on those isolated Massachusetts beaches. Sometimes I would pack a little lunch and walk miles just to get there and then miles down the beach. The fragrance of the shore, the taste of salt, the feel of wind and sand, the sound of wind and waves and sea birds and the warm sun drenched landscape - all washed thru my spirit. I could lie, baking in the sand - spirited away from my man-made troubles.
These may have been the days when I began my collection in earnest; careful and deliberate - collecting only a precious few "pocket" treasures that might survive the journey of an accidental tourist - traveling light.
Oh my gosh, are these shells in a jar speaking to me - thirty-nine years later - in the fifty-fifth year of my life! Like a "message in a bottle" - can these shell fragments in an old jar help me piece together - make some sense of my life?
I think they have already begun to do just that.
I will have to start carrying them with me again - in my "pockets". Perhaps such a memento - a daily reminder will help me rekindle - not only that sense of escape - but a destination . . . a physical destination where my spirit might be happy.
Oddly - with the approach of my fifty-fifth birthday - it occurred to me that I might be happiest retiring on the shore of one of those large fresh-water reservoirs in the desert. I could fish and canoe and swim (without fear of sharks). Ironically - such a dessert is just an old dried up former ocean; might even find some old fossilized sea shells. Still, not quite the same as sitting on the shore of a great ocean - looking out as far as the eye can see - where the sky meets the water - at the edge of the world.
To sum up my pathetic existence: It seems as though I'm like one of those shell fragments. Life has broken and abandoned me on some isolated shore. Beaten by the elements into a sullen submission - there is no one but me to make sense of my life . . . and find any sort of satisfaction or happiness. It sometimes seems that the vast majority of my life has been spent struggling in that churning undertoe - between worlds.
I apologize for exposing you to so much of me. I feel I have a responsibility to any hapless web explorer that may come upon one of my compositions. Sorry, perhaps I should have placed a warning at the top of this page: Caution! Excessive Wallowing In Self Pity! I didn't know, when I wiped the dust off my old jar of shells to take a few pretty pictures, that it would take me to this place - within.
But, we really are all "accidental tourists" - in life. We just never know for sure what waits down that path - any path we are taken. Self determination - though potent - may be mostly illusion.
