My Solitudes : Chapter Eleven : Seacoast in Summer : Excerpts

The tide is coming in and I'm in trouble. At the south end of the cove, the rising water has already submerged the rocks, blocking that exit. Along the entire length of the beach, the marks left behind by the previous high tide extend right to the very top of the sand, showing that not a single inch was left untouched by the water. Behind the beach steep cliffs rise up directly, impossible to climb ...

Don't misunderstand. I'm not in any danger. At the north end of the cove, a pathway snakes through a grassy area and leads out to civilization. If the water does indeed come all the way up to the cliff face, I'll be able to escape safely. But I don't want to 'escape'; I want to camp here! When I first saw this little bay a couple of weeks ago, on a scouting trip looking for a suitable location for this adventure, it seemed like an absolutely perfect spot - a small sandy cove facing the Pacific, rocky headlands extending out into the ocean on each side, a steep unclimbable cliff behind. It seemed perfect. At that time, the mark left by the high tide reached only about half-way up the sand; above that was a dry strip offering plenty of space in which to pitch my tent. I had anticipated no problem at all.

Now though, it looks as though I will soon be pushed out by the rising water, and will have to move to one of the alternate places I noted during that scouting trip. But this peninsula, being quite close to the metropolitan area, is a very popular destination. I had learned on that earlier trip that in this summer season nearly all the beaches are constantly crowded with people, even on weekdays. I was looking for a peaceful and solitary place, and this beach seemed special. I had stumbled on it almost by accident. There is no access from land directly, as the cliffs are vertical and completely impassable. The entrance at the south end is passable only at low tide, and then only by clambering up and down over jumbled rock piles. The path on the north side, the only other way in, has been blocked by a huge construction site, and will remain so for a few years yet. As a result, almost nobody comes here, and on the day of my previous visit the beach was absolutely bare of footprints, incredible for a place this close to the city! So for this trip, I had planned my arrival and departure times carefully by checking the tide tables in the newspaper, and had eagerly anticipated camping on my own 'private' beach.

But I had obviously miscalculated. I know nothing of the ways of the sea and the tides, and had simply assumed that if the sea only came up 'that' far a couple of weeks ago, then it would do pretty much the same today. It seems that I have a lot to learn. Standing here now, watching the inexorable rise of the water, I realize that it might be the weather that is the cause of the difference; a few weeks ago the sea was calm and smooth: now there is a deep swell, with rollers breaking on the beach. The water shoots far up the sand after each wave arrives, and it is these waves, rather than the actual level of the sea itself, that is inundating the sand. There seems no hope for it, I either have to move somewhere else, go home and return another day, or get very wet tonight!

I'm not ready to give up just yet though. I had originally planned to come on this trip one day earlier, but had been warned off by a friend who said that the weather report showed high waves in this area. Today's forecast was less dire, predicting sun with a chance of showers, but no mention of high winds or waves. If those high water marks were left by yesterday's high waves, then presumably today's sea won't reach the same height. Perhaps there will be room at the top of the beach for my tent after all. If I just sit here for a while and wait for high tide, then I'll be able to see for myself. So I leave my backpack sitting 'safely' at the highest point on the beach, sit on the warm sand leaning against a log, and start to get acquainted with what I hope can be my home for the next 24 hours or so.

 

The line of wet sand showing the advance of the tide has risen higher on the beach, and even as I watch, it is driven up another metre or so by a particularly strong wave. High tide is due at about seven this evening, but as I don't have a watch with me, I have no way of telling when the advance of the water will stop. I simply have to wait and watch. At the moment though, there is no doubt; it is still climbing steadily. I sit back against my log again, to watch it come.

Just the other day, while thinking over the list of gear for this trip, it had occurred to me that it might be a good idea to bring a pair of binoculars, so I picked up an inexpensive pair from a nearby shop. I now dig them out of the pack and see what they will show me. It is my first experience of using such equipment, and I am stunned to find how such a small device instantly transforms the horizon from being a grey misty band in the distance into a thriving populated landscape. The view from this beach is directly across Tokyo Bay toward the peninsula on the other side, but the distance is so great that I had felt as though I was facing the open ocean, with thousands of miles of open expanse in front of me. How wrong I was. Here in the glass, a new world has suddenly appeared. I can see range after range of hills over there, some with highways snaking up their sides. All the way along the coast sit buildings of every size and shape, and in places I can even see tiny white dots slowly moving from side to side - cars moving along the sea-coast highway! At one spot, a white 'kannon' statue rises into the air; it must be huge to appear so high at this distance! And in front of this backdrop, from far left to far right, blending into the distant mist at each end, moves a long parade of ships, presumably coming and going from the Tokyo/Yokohama port area. And I had been feeling that this was a completely isolated beach! I see now that it is I who sit on the stage, and millions of people are out there watching me! But I suppose it doesn't matter - to them this place is just another spot on a long shoreline, and even if any of them were using binoculars to look this way, I rather doubt that they could pick out this tiny creature sitting here on the sand. No, I'll try and maintain the sensation of being in a solitary, isolated place, illusion though that may be ...

 

And on a sudden impulse, I remember my binoculars, dig them out of their pouch, open the tent flap wide, and lie back on the mattress to steady my head and arms as I peer up into the sky to see what she looks like - close up.

And now again, as I have many times before in my essays, and will many times in the future, again I have to bemoan my sorry writing skills. How can I find any words to describe to you what I saw up there in the sky? I can say at once though, that during the remaining travels for this little adventure of four seasons in a few solitary places, if I were to discover nothing more of interest, nothing at all, then this project would still have been an outstanding success. Because tonight, I saw the moon, and in more than fifty years on this planet, I have never seen it before. I think there are two kinds of people reading these words: one group, people with experience of astronomy, who know very well just what I saw there in the sky, and who are smiling in compassion at my inability to describe what I saw, and then all the rest of you, who are reading these words in a general incomprehension. To this second group, I have only one comment: go today to a camera shop and buy a simple pair of binoculars (my beautiful new pair, a simple type, cost only 4500 yen), wait for the next full moon, and when it is here (it won't dare come on anything but a beautifully clear night, of course!), make yourself comfortable in your garden or in a window, and take a look ... And then, you will understand what I am trying to say, and then, you will sympathize with my inarticulate ramblings ...

It is a sphere! Not a flat, silver-coloured disk stuck onto a flat black backdrop, but a gorgeous spherical silver orb floating in a deep velvety black cavern. Now I understand what that word 'orb' means! This moon is as fully round and textured as any ball that you can hold in your hands. Think of the difference between a coin and a ball. Do you have a good impression of this difference in your mind? The flatness of one, and the sphericity of the other? Well that thing hanging up there in the sky is a sphere! Of course I knew this intellectually, I knew that men have flown around it, have even walked on its surface, but now I know what shape it is. Now I know that it really is another world, hovering there in space in partnership with this one on which we live.

 

I have no idea what time it is, and the sun still has a long way to go before reaching the zenith, but it is getting very hot out here. It's a good time for a swim. My swimsuit and mask are in my pack up at the other end of the beach ... Who needs them? In a moment, my clothes are tossed onto the log, and in another moment, I am again in the sea, my body suspended in the warm water, floating freely ...

I don't float too freely, as I don't want to be carried towards the rocky area, but do let myself be tumbled in and out on the beach as the waves roll onto the sand one by one. I am bumped against the beach and the sea floor repeatedly, but the sand is soft, and the sensation is quite pleasant. One moment I am being shot up the sandy slope by an advancing rush of foamy water, the next minute being sucked back into the sea, and there left hanging in the water. Looking out towards the open sea from this vantage point in the water, the swells coming towards me seem to rise up to an enormous height. I am sure that it must be quite thrilling for those who venture out onto the wide open sea for surfing, to see the water rise up like this, and then to let it carry them roaring along. But this little beach is quite enough for me... At one point a particularly strong wave pushes me quite a way up the beach, and as I flop onto my back the water recedes and leaves me stranded on the sand. I sit up to face the sea, and sit there enjoying the feeling of having the water rush up the sand towards me, bury me in a shower of white foam, and then slip away in a million ripples. The sun is out over the sea directly in front of me, and every movement of water is illuminated with fantastic light, sparkling on the sea surface, in the waves, and in the run-off on the wet sand. Each wave seems to suck away a bit more of the sand from under my bottom and feet, and I gradually sink deeper into the surface. But as the tide is on the wane, the number of waves that reaches this far decreases gradually, and I fall into a languid mood, my eyes staring somewhat vacantly at the movement of the water, up and down ... up and down ... up and back down again ...

Who am I? What am I? Without my glasses or binoculars, that outer world of ships and far shores has disappeared completely. I am just a pink and naked animal sitting on an isolated beach on an island somewhere. All around me there is life: naked crabs on the rocks, naked fish in the sea, naked insects on the sands ... Am I really a part of all this? Does this naked animal really belong here in this place, on this island, on this planet? Those crabs are having no trouble 'making a living'; food and shelter surround them. The same is true for the fish, the insects, and whatever other creatures are living here. But what of this animal? If I suddenly were forced to live here in this place without tents and clothes and supermarkets ... could I survive? It seems rather doubtful. Even if I somehow managed to catch enough crabs or shellfish to avoid starvation for a few days, what then? The first typhoon that came along would blow me away ... I really don't feel like a 'natural' creature, like all these creatures around me here seem to be. But what is 'natural' for human beings? If we need fish to eat, we build spears or traps to catch them. If we need to escape bad weather, we build shelters for protection. For human beings, being natural means building things; it means using tools. But surely, building spears and shelters and using tools leads inexorably to the creation of that huge agglomeration that I have left behind me, the thing that I have come here to this beach to escape ... the giant city.

Sitting here on this beach, my body now half buried in the sand, and washed by the waves of the ocean, it is difficult to escape the realization that I don't really belong here, but rather belong back in my home, hunched over a computer screen, plate of processed food at my side. Isn't that the 'natural' way for man, the tool-using animal, to live? But if these things are true, then why does it feel so right to be lying here in the water, and so wrong to be back there? Why?

I find I am unable to answer this question, neither as I sit in the warm sunshine on the beach, nor later as I sit typing out these thoughts for you to read. But one thing I do know, that when I pack my bag to prepare for these trips, I do so eagerly, but when I pack it to start returning home, I do so reluctantly ...