A winter’s walk on the beach

Written by Ellen Beveridge
Wednesday, 11 January 2012 01:00

Christmas Eve day dawned bright and beautiful. It was a special day for me. My daughter Mary Ellen and husband, Ron, had traveled from out of state to visit for the holiday.

After a hearty breakfast we decided an invigorating walk was just what the doctor ordered, and what better solution than a walk on the beach.

Going to the beach was like returning to my roots. Growing up in Stratford and spending many childhood vacations at beach cottages in Westbrook and Old Lyme, being in or on Long Island Sound was in my DNA, so to speak.

I brought my daughters to the beach many times when they were young. Probably because of this connection, when Mary Ellen attended the graduate program at the University of Iowa she said the one thing that seemed strange to her was being so far away from salt water.

On this winter’s day, as we drove on the road across the marshes and wetlands on the way to Lordship, brown was the predominant color of the landscape. Everything looked drab and dead; it was like all living things, flora and fauna, were in hibernation.

Our walk began along the seawall. At the end of the sidewalk there was a short flight of steps that led to the beach. As we continued on, we followed a path of newly wet sand formed by the receding tide. I noticed that where the tide had peaked the water created a miniature cliff of sand along the high water mark.

Exposed on the wet sand was an abundance of stones in various sizes, and many of them had been worn down and flattened by the endless movement of the water.

Flat stones are perfect for skimming. I used to love to skim them across the water when I was a child. But as I tried my luck this day I soon discovered that my throwing arm wasn’t what it used to be.

Ron to the rescue; he tossed stones while Mary Ellen and I joined in watching the number of skims a manly arm could produce. At times we counted up to six, seven and eight.

We paused to soak in the beauty of Long Island Sound in winter. The sky was blue and cloudless except for a few streaks of white on the horizon. The sun was very low in the sky because, after all, only three days had passed since the winter solstice. This angle of the sun’s rays on the water was almost blinding, and a slight breeze created a chop that made the rays even more dazzling. I was grateful for my sunglasses.

The path of light created a “V” shape across the water; the widest part began far in the distance and narrowed down to the water’s edge. It was probably a sight that only could be seen at this time of year.

The air was so refreshing and filled us with a “great to be alive” feeling. We practically had the beach to ourselves with the exception of a man who passed us walking his dog on a leash. Then two women walked toward us wearing red and white Santa hats; in a friendly gesture they wished us a Merry Christmas, to which we replied un kind.

There were parts of crab legs here and there along with the usual assortment of shells and some unwelcome debris. But the water lapping quietly against the shore was surprisingly clear.

Our major “find” was a large white lobster pot that had washed ashore. It was almost buried in so much sand and small pebbles that it was impossible to budge. An occasional seagull would swoop down and alight on the sand nearby. As we approached, the bird took flight as the raucous sound of its cry filled the air.

Several large houses set far back from the water’s edge caught our attention. The houses had distinctive characteristics that made each one unique. From the architecture, we guessed the houses were probably built in the early 1900s; no doubt in all those years they had survived many a nor’easter and hurricane.

As I turned my gaze back to the water, I couldn’t help but think how different the Sound appeared at this time of year. It was so quiet compared to what it would be like in the summer months.

There were no sailboats drifting on the water, no speed boats churning up the water, no larger commercial boats plowing the water as they either traveled west toward New York or east to where the Sound widens into the Atlantic.

We did see one exception: In the distance the Long Island ferry was leaving the Bridgeport harbor bound for Port Jefferson.

Reluctantly, it came time to end our walk. The hearty breakfast would now be replaced by a hearty lunch.

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