The Beach

Cannon Beach from Ecola State Park (from here)

The sun rose in a blue sky and all I could do was sob. The beautiful day was mocking me and my thoughts began the spiral down. “I am so lost”, I thought. “I don’t belong here. Where is he? Where is my life? When will I feel safe again? Will I?”

I cried until I felt sick, until tears dropped from my chin and onto the floor, my shirt, my feet. I cried and cried and cried.

Eventually, the promise of feeling sun on my skin began to make the weight lessen until I could formulate a vague plan. I’d go to the beach. Look out at the blue Pacific. Lie in the sand and let the earth hold onto me. I’d let the ocean provide the peace I couldn’t find within myself.

And suddenly, the thought “I’ll throw his ashes in the ocean today” just appeared in my mind. I had never considered it before and decided to act on the impulse. I could easily see myself holding the plastic bag of ashes into the wind at the edge of the water, letting the wind carry his remains out to sea.

So much of this terrible journey has been about following my instincts. I don’t have a clue when I’ll be ready to do something as impossible as open that box and witness the gray ashes that constitute my best friend’s remains, but when I am, I’d better just do it. If I have the strength today, I might not again for a while. Get it over with. Push through it. Maybe I tend to rush too much, but I do know that my impulses regarding Dave’s death have never steered me wrong so far.

I slid the large oak box off the closet shelf and carefully turned it upside down to inspect the workings. Four screws held the bottom on. Once I unscrewed them, I’d see his remains for the first time. I suppressed the urge to throw up as I dug a screwdriver out of storage and carefully unscrewed one, two, three, four times, all the while wondering how it was possible that I was holding Dave’s ashes in my lap. That Dave is ashes.

After removing the bottom, I saw the gray ashes inside the plastic bag. I carefully poked the surface. Dense. Thick. Heavy. Dark gray. Describes the way grief feels perfectly.

I reattached the bottom plate and packed the box, the screwdriver and a pair of scissors to cut the bag open. I added a blanket, water and a snack and began the 2 hour drive to the ocean.

As the miles disappeared behind me, I cried some more. I grasped onto a few moments of clarity and less pain. I lapsed into a few moments of utter numbness and detachment.

Then, on the horizon, as I approached Cannon Beach, I caught a glimpse of the blue blue Pacific and haystack rock. The waves appeared to be still from this far away, frozen in perfect frothiness. The blue was dense and almost unnatural in the spring sunshine. I felt a tiny flicker of peace inside me.

The closer I got to the trail I wanted to take to take to the shore, the more the clouds rolled in. Finally, I pulled into the parking lot, used the state park bathroom, and gathered the bag and blanket and realized… I’d forgotten my wallet and that here at the shore, the weather was cold and gray, not warm and golden as I’d envisioned. I felt cold, lost and weak.

 Thankfully, the gas tank was full enough to get me home, but my desire to be at the ocean had evaporated. All I could think of was getting home.

I realized how incredibly vulnerable my grief had made me that day. I’d been unable to think through the simplest plan. I’d even maybe been a bit of a danger on the roads. The condition I was in and road travel just weren’t a good combination.

Defeated, I drove home without ever making it down to the beach. I left the box of Dave in the car for the time being. I didn't have the energy to bring it back up to my apartment.

Maybe the day will come when I feel ready to try again. I have given over the reigns to grief. It carries on at its own rate, no matter what I do.

I still envision a beautiful sunny day on the coast, me retracing our own footsteps from years ago. Gulls crying, waves crashing, wet sand cool beneath my toes and Dave's ashes being carried away on the wind, into the Pacific.