Fog hangs thick and cold. Warm sands chill. Rain drizzles. Wind blows the water cold. Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. Windshield wipers swiping, defroster blowing, day-lights on:  I have the road to myself.

The beach parking lot looks more like mid November than mid August. The attendant booth is closed, door shut, the tide and water temperature board unchanged from yesterday. I coast into my favorite spot at the foot of the blue-mat boardwalk: rolled out for summer people with their beach wagons, heavy shoulder bags, folded chairs, and wheeled coolers.

The ocean rumbles in the fog. I think of the ships wrecked against the shifting sandbars before the lighthouses were built, the lives lost to the sea, the lives saved by the coast guard risking themselves for strangers. The hubris of boats bobbing over deep waters. A storm’s reminder of our weakness, our ignorant efforts to control a planet insistent upon change.

Down at the tide line, the white water now in view, the ocean feels good across my feet hardened from months of walking barefoot. The rocks that poked and cut in June are smoothed.

Ankle deep, I listen and count between the thunders. A summer storm is moving across our elbowed landscape – last stop before the freedom of the open ocean. I picture the traffic in town – cars lined behind blinking left turn signals. I hear shopping carts clattering through the grocery store – pushed by strangers straining to read the aisle signs in search of the next thing on their list. I imagine families circled up around mini golf links – their tiny colored pencils keeping the score. 

I take shelter in the dunes. Hood up, arms hugged, I nestle into the sand, close my eyes, and listen. Another rumble in the distance. I begin counting again. Waves break, reach for the tide line, and retreat. The air is damp, the sky is dark, and the guard stands are empty. An abandoned yellow shovel, a single flip flop, and the windblown ruins of a once proud sandcastle – reminders that  today marks the heart of the summer season. 

The first drops are light, the next are heavy, then thunder opens the skies and the rain pours down, bouncing off of my jacket, falling over the brim of my hat, and sinking silently into the sand. The curtain of fog begins to lift. I see the dark head of a seal bobbing with the waves. Then she is gone, vanished beneath the rain-dropped ocean. Light flashes, thunder cracks, and I begin counting again.

This time my count reaches twenty-three. The storm is leaving. Tomorrow there will be blue sky, bright sun, and warm water. But now the sky is dark, the sun is dull, and the water is cold: what a beautiful day.