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What I remember most about Assateague is the way the ocean sparkled there when the sun hit it. It was like diamonds, only not as garish. Like a brighter sky full of stars, if there could be a negative to a star-filled sky. That sand was just the right colour, and just the right texture..sort of an almond paste hue to an intensely brilliant, ever changing deep orange sky change to purple to pink to blue. The froth of the tide encircling my ankles, coming up to meet our excitement in all things ocean, then pulling gravitationally back€..and forward again€..and back. Forward, around the ankles, then pulling back, leaving tiny creatures in the wet sand, larvae, millions of them, that we bent over in the hot sun to look at.The scrubby beach grass clumped randomly was picturesque in its starkness against the dunes. We were always on the lookout for one of the wild horses, and I secretly hoped one would come running down to the water while we watched. Looking for shells, we found many small ones, but nothing large, no conch shells. The locals said those could only be found after a major storm. Casey asked me if we could come back for a hurricane many times after that, just precisely for that reason. Horseshoe crab shells lay here and there, along with millions of holes in the sand that housed millions more of ghost crabs that would charge out of holes all over the beach. They were the same colour as the sand, really, with beady bright eyes that looked all about when they ran. Casey is still angry I didn€™t allow her to bring one home. I had visions of hot crab decomposing in the car after expiring on the way home to New York.Just my teenager€™s luck, the site to the right of us was emptying out, and one of its inhabitants was a pretty teenage girl from Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. He shook his head when he found out they were leaving, much as though luck had once again dealt virile youth a cruel hand. I laughed, so did Casey, as she watched him intently while he played his guitar at the campsite.I loved the way we could get a site just near enough to the dunes, and at night, after our moonlit walks, we would return to the tent and sleep to the sound of the waves close by.
The best ghost crab scenario had to be the thrill of taking a flashlight for the three of us and walking either barefoot or sandalfoot down on the beach spotlighting holes as ghost crabs scampered at night. My daughter and I cackled, clinging to John as though he could save us from a crab moving underfoot and making us scream. On a moonlit night, I have to say that ghost crab hunting will be one of the greatest memories I can think of with my children.The wild horses of Assateague ran wild, but sadly, some had become rather domesticated due to ignorant campers feeding them, which only made them more vulnerable to traffic through the park as well as in not knowing how to fend for themselves too well. There was this old horse I refer to still as €œOur Old Friend€?. We came out of the tent one morning and there he was, tail swaying at flies, staring intently trying to communicate that if we had any apples at all, as all humans must do, that he would like one as soon as possible. He wouldn€™t move. All the while getting ready for the day, there he stood, like a statue, moving really very little. It was sort of funny yet sort of sad. Our friend had tumours and looked unwell and old. But he was still our friend, and his chestnut soul was indescribably beautiful. A camper nearby getting ready to leave allowed his grandkids to feed him despite signs up at the bathrooms and the like never to feed them as it would bring them harm. Later, a ranger pulling in discovering apple cores began screaming and demanding to know who the culprit was. No-one said anything. I wanted to betray the old man€™s ignorance but knew he only did it for his grandchildren, not caring too much about the bigger picture. Who knows what went through his mind; maybe even his mortality and what if he spent his last summer making a kid smile? One cannot ever know anothers€™ motives; though we may think we know better, we really aren€™t in a place to know, you know? As my children were angry with him, I thought things through and let it go.John doesn€™t always give a reason for what he does. It€™s just Johnny. He turned sixteen on that trip. We are used to an easygoing tempo in our family, as far as expectations and demands go. He decided to sleep in the car all week, we gave him his space and didn€™t ask. Maybe he just wanted to get away from his little sister. The last night, he decided to try the tent. She refused to accommodate and let him in. He called her a few names and let her have her way, heading for the car. We set up the battery powered lantern in the middle of us and lay down, talking quietly. Soon, we heard something outside the tent and whispered €œWhat was that?€?€with the lantern on, and the light from the other camps, shadows appeared of horses circling the tent! I could sense her eyes getting bigger in the semi darkness. Pulling the blankets up higher I whispered to Casey, €œNow do you wish you let Johnny sleep in the tent?€? Hilarious giggling came from us both, as well as wonder at what was due next. We heard people at the other site exclaim that €œthey are in there€? and yes, we were indeed. We waited for the tent to get knocked over and instead soon heard what sounded like a stream of water rushing at the corner of the tent. The one horse was urinating on my tent. That was too comical to tell the next morning to John, who had slept through the entire event.Days flew by though few and seagulls circled lazily in the summer sky. Ocean breeze tasting of salt calls me back even still. I see my daughter twist and turn before falling asleep now, the ocean calls her back, back to the time when she lay in the surf as her brother yelled out toward her €œCome on Stupid€we have to go! Now!€? to which she exclaimed in a baby voice that betrayed her 12 and a half years, €œNO!!!€? Followed by a near wail in her voice to a whisper as she chanted €œGoodbye My ocean€? and sadly took herself, all sunburned and forlorn, back up the dunes to the car and to the pile of articles left to stuff into it. And as I think about it, as much as I despise engendering inanimate objects, to identify the living ocean as female seems like the most natural thing in the world to do, as it brings forth life, and it thrives on the energy of the moon.We that day made a promise to come back to Her.I really enjoy talking to those who are poets, writers, involved in intuitive work or poetry or just gifted spiritually!!......yay come talk to me?
value="transparent"> ..>SPARTACUS!
