Beach Walk (Encore)

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone,

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read

all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Busy minds need a place to rest.

I've written you a soft landing.

A simple story to rest your attention on.

I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

Just by listening, you'll shift your brain activity and put yourself in a place where sleep will come.

If you wake in the night, you can listen again.

or think through any parts that you can remember.

Your brain will shift again and you will fall right right back to sleep.

We're creating a conditioned response, so know that the more you do this, the more reliable your sleep will be.

If you're new here,

well,

be patient at first.

Our story tonight is called Beach Walk.

And it's a story about meeting the morning light where the water meets the land.

It's also about the first step into the cool water.

A dog chasing a stick into the waves.

And a beach towel laid out neatly in the sand.

All right, it's time.

Turn off your light.

Set down what you were looking at.

Get the right pillow in the right spot.

And make your own comfort your first priority.

Whatever happened today

is what happened today,

and now we're here.

You are safe,

and I will keep watch.

Together, let's breathe in deep through the nose

and sigh through the mouth.

Nice.

Once more, breathe in,

Let it out.

Good.

Beach walk.

Sometimes I went in the afternoon

or just before sunset.

It depended on the day,

on the heat, and the sun,

and how many other people might be walking.

Today I woke up early

and decided that before I got tangled up in any other ideas

and chores

or a to-do list,

I'd just go.

It was something a friend of mine used to say,

When in doubt,

do what you were going to do first.

A suggestion to trust your instincts and not overthink.

So I trusted mine.

I put my swimsuit on with shorts and a tank top

and grabbed a few beach towels.

and the jug I took on hikes filled with ice water

and drove out to the beach.

The lot was a long, narrow space that would be full of cars and scooters and bikes by midday.

But this early there were only a few others parked there.

I left most of my things in my car,

thinking that I'd take a long walk, then come back here before a swim.

I even left my flip-flops in the footwell of the car.

As soon as I stepped out onto the sand,

I wanted to be barefoot.

It was cool under my soles

and damp,

just the right texture to make a castle with.

The sun was still low on the horizon.

Its rays hadn't had a chance yet to heat up all those many grains of sand.

I stood still,

feeling them shift beneath me,

wondering just how many there might be on a beach like this.

I'd read once that our brains run on 86 billion neurons,

that there are 200 billion trillion stars in the observable universe.

And I wondered about the number of blades of grass,

of feathers, of pounds of salt in the ocean, of gemstones buried deep inside the ground.

If I take twenty thousand breaths a day,

and so do you, and everyone else,

could we add them all up and divide by grains of sand?

I smiled to myself as I started to walk,

imagining some sort of cosmic accounting,

an abacus made of stars,

multiplying my breaths with the wing beats of bees,

being ankle-deep in sand,

and so near the sound of the waves, did this to me.

Made me feel

very small, but absolutely in balance with the bigger universe.

It felt like finding the red dot on the map.

You are here.

And here I was,

striding slowly down the beach

and closer to the water.

If you've ever brought little ones to the beach or a swimming pool

or even near to a sprinkler, you can see it in their faces.

They are irresistibly drawn to it.

And even in my grown-up body,

I felt the same way.

I couldn't wait to feel the water wash over my ankles.

And I picked up my pace and splashed in.

The cool waves rolling over my feet felt like

relief.

Like those videos of folks working

to help a sea turtle who's been flipped onto his back.

They get him right side up again,

and you watch him push and paddle closer to the water until he slips all the way in

and it washes over his shell.

And you think,

what a relief it must have been,

how good it must have felt

to come home.

I started to walk through the shallows,

sometimes stepping back onto the just damp sand,

and sometimes getting wet up to my knees.

I watched a time step of long-legged sandpipers racing along the water,

chasing each wave back as it rolled out, and running from the next rolling in.

They had tall, jointed legs,

and long pointed bills for digging in the sand.

And I used to mistake them for piping plovers.

Alliterative birds.

They were plumper and paler

and short-billed, and a rare sight on this beach.

There were only a few people walking,

and almost no one set up in the sand yet.

I enjoyed the solitude,

and stopped frequently to turn over stones and shells with my toes.

I carried some into the water,

and rinsed the sand from them in my hands,

noticing the iridescent insides of the shells and the tiny specks of color in the rocks.

I found a few very good skipping stones,

broad and smooth and flat.

And while most of them went straight in with a plop,

the last one skipped across the surface four times before sinking in.

I wondered how many times had the same flat stones been cast out

and washed back up

to be scooped out of the surf and skipped again.

Maybe the one I threw had been last skipped by someone a hundred years ago

who also liked to get up early and walk before the sand got hot.

And maybe they had wondered about the hands that threw it another hundred years before.

Ahead of me, a black dog with shining wet fur sat at its owner's feet,

its tail thumping into the sand excitedly, begging for a stick to be thrown into the water.

The owner lifted it high in an arc overhead, like they were casting a fishing line,

and threw it far out

into the waves.

The dog darted, keen on its mission, and swam for what I guessed was the twentieth time this morning to retrieve it.

I watched as the dog caught up the stick and turned in the water, paddling to the shore.

His muzzle was stark white against his black fur,

and the sight of his sweet, older face made me put my hand on my heart.

A sudden clench of emotion.

He wouldn't always be able to do this.

But today he could.

And his person was here for it.

I started to notice a few umbrellas propped in the sand,

folding chairs being wrestled into place.

Towels unfurled like tablecloths.

The sun was rising higher,

and the humid air was heating up quickly.

I was ready for my swim, so I turned and began walking back in the direction I had come.

I passed a giant piece of driftwood.

It was bleached white from the sun,

gnarled and dry,

but still recognizably part of a tree.

Maybe it had been struck by lightning,

or just snapped by strong winds and sent into the water.

It had washed up here,

who knows how many years ago,

and was sort of a local landmark.

I'd seen high school students posing for pictures in front of it,

and it was depicted in a watercolor in the gallery up the street.

Sometimes people left shells balanced on it,

and once I'd seen a team of folks building a huge sandcastle,

incorporating it into the moat.

I started the climb

up toward my car,

already thinking of the jug of cold water

and spreading my towel out in the sand.

It was just a simple beach walk.

But

how many places I'd already been this morning.

beach walk

Sometimes I went in the afternoon

or

just before sunset.

It depended on the day,

on the heat, on the sun,

and how many other people might be walking.

Today I woke up early

and decided that

before I got tangled up

in any other ideas

in chores or what to do list,

I'd just go.

It was something a friend of mine used to say

when in doubt,

do what you are going to do first.

A suggestion to trust your instincts and not overthink.

So I trusted mine.

I put my swimsuit on, with shorts and a tank top,

and grabbed a few beach towels

and the jug I took on hikes filled with ice water

and drove out to the beach.

The lot was a long, narrow space

that would be full of cars and scooters and bikes by midday.

But this early there were only a few others parked there.

I left most of my things in my car,

thinking that

I'd take a long walk, then come back here before a swim.

I even left my flip flops in the footwell of the car.

As soon as I stepped out onto the sand,

I wanted to be barefoot.

It was cool under my soles

and damp, just the right texture to make a castle with.

The sun was still low on the horizon.

Its rays hadn't had a chance yet

to heat up all those many grains of sand.

I stood still,

feeling it shift beneath me,

wondering

just how many there might be on a beach like this.

I'd read once

that our brains run on eighty-six billion neurons,

that there are two hundred billion trillion stars in the observable universe.

And I thought too about

the number of blades of grass,

of feathers, of pounds of salt in the ocean,

of gemstones buried deep inside the ground.

If I take twenty thousand breaths a day,

and so do you

and everyone else,

could we add them all up and divide by grains of sand?

I smiled at myself as I started to walk,

imagining some sort of cosmic accounting.

An abacus made of stars,

multiplying my breaths with the wing beats of bees.

Being ankle deep in sand

and so near the sound of the waves did this to me.

Made me feel

very small,

but absolutely in balance with the bigger universe.

It felt like finding the red dot on the map.

You are here.

And here I was,

striding slowly down the beach

and closer to the water.

If you've ever brought little ones to the beach

or swimming pool or

even near to a sprinkler,

you can see it in their faces.

They are irresistibly drawn to it.

And even in my grown-up body,

I felt the same way.

I couldn't wait to feel the water

wash over my ankles.

and I picked up my pace

and splashed in.

The cool waves

rolling over my feet

felt like relief

like those videos of folks

working

to help a sea turtle

who's been flipped on his back

They get him right side up again

And you watch him push and paddle closer to the water

Until he slips all the way in

and it washes over his shell

And you think what a relief it must have been

How good it must have felt

to come home.

I started to walk through the shallows,

sometimes stepping back onto the just damp sand,

and sometimes getting wet up to my knees.

I watched a time step of long-legged sandpipers racing along the water,

chasing each wave back as it rolled out

and running from the next rolling in.

They had tall jointed legs

and long pointed bills for digging in the sand.

And I used to mistake them for piping plovers.

Alliterative birds they were plumper and paler

and short-billed, and a rare sight on this beach.

There were only a few people walking,

and almost no one set up in the sand yet.

I enjoyed the solitude,

and stopped stopped frequently to turn over stones and shells with my toes.

I carried some into the water

and rinsed the sand from them in my hands,

noticing the iridescent insides of the shells

and the tiny specks of color in the rocks.

I found a few

very good skipping stones,

broad and smooth and flat.

And while most of them went straight in with a plop,

the last one skipped across the surface four times before sinking in.

How many times had the same flat stones been cast out

and washed back up

to be scooped out of the surf and skipped again?

Maybe the one I threw had last been skipped by someone a hundred years ago

who also liked to get up early

and walk before the sand got hot.

And maybe

they had wondered about the hands that threw it another hundred years before.

Ahead of me,

a black dog with shining wet fur

sat at its owner's feet,

its tail thumping into the sand excitedly,

begging for a stick to be thrown back into the water.

The owner lifted it high in an arc overhead,

like they were casting a fishing line,

and threw it far out into the waves.

The dog darted,

keen on its mission, and swam for

what I guessed was the twentieth time this morning to retrieve it.

I watched as the dog caught up the stick

and turned in the water, paddling to the shore.

His muzzle was stark white against his black fur,

and the sight of his sweet, older face

made me clap a hand over my heart.

A sudden clench of emotion.

He wouldn't always be able to do this.

But today he could.

And his person was here for it.

I started to notice a few umbrellas propped in the sand,

folding chairs being wrestled into place,

towels unfurled like tablecloths.

The sun was rising higher,

and the humid air was heating up quickly.

I was ready for my swim,

so I turned

and began walking back in the direction I had come.

I passed a giant piece of driftwood.

It was bleached white from the sun,

gnarled and dry,

but still recognizably part of a tree.

Maybe it had been struck by lightning,

or just snapped by strong winds and sent into the water.

It had washed up here

who knows

how many years ago now

and was sort of a local landmark.

I'd seen high school students posing for pictures in front of it,

and it was depicted in a watercolor in the gallery up the street.

Sometimes people left shells balanced on it.

And once I'd seen a team of folks building a huge sand castle,

incorporating it into the moat.

I started the climb up toward my car,

already thinking of the jug of cold water,

and spreading my towel out in the sand.

It was just a simple beach walk.

But

how many places I'd already been this morning,

sweet dreams.