No Talking Allowed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Peering down from my hiding place I see far below a gentle surf lapping against the white sandy beach. The receding waves act like the tongues of thirsty dogs licking at the sand. As each wave releases its energy and slides back into the sea it carries with it part of this beach that is the front door to my view of the world.

But it isn’t just sand being drawn into the ocean that alters the view from my front door. Everything around me is in constant change if I just stand still long enough to notice. Maybe the fact that I have to stay very still and I am not allowed to speak to anyone gives me more time to watch the events taking place before me. Sometimes I feel like a spy looking down on the lives of people way down there on the beach. I can see them but they have no idea my eyes are upon them so they do things that they otherwise might not do.

As the sun was breaking over the distant horizon this morning I strained to bring into focus a jogger coming down the beach. Running alongside of him was a large black dog. The dog wasn’t on a leash although this beach had a strict leash-law. Occasionally the jogger would stop, pick up a piece of drift wood and toss it into the surf for the dog to chase after. The jogger and his dog were having a great time.

Almost right down in front of my hiding place the dog stopped and eliminated the remains of what must have been a large meal from the previous evening. What the dog did was perfectly normal behavior for a dog. The jogger stood patiently by as the dog finished his business. I saw that the man had a plastic bag tucked inside the waist band of his jogging shorts. That plastic bag was for the purpose of complying with another beach law, “scoop it up and pack it out” so the beach can remain clean and beautiful for other visitors to the sand of the seashore.

The dog completed his task and returned to his playful manner, coaxing his master to chase and play in the surf once more. The jogger looked down at the soiled beach but instead of retrieving his dog’s “beach present,” I noticed that he looked one way and then the next, searching for what I could only guess was to see if someone else on the beach might have seen what transpired. I can’t judge what was in his mind; I can only observe his actions. I looked both ways down the beach also and saw that it was deserted all except for me hiding way up above out of the jogger’s view. When he side-stepped the mess his dog left on the beach I wanted to shout down and tell him to clean up after his dog but I remained silent. I remembered one of the rules of my hiding place, no talking allowed. No one asked or wanted me to be the “Beach Gestapo” or “Poop Patrol.” I was only allowed to silently observe and there were many things to notice.

That huge orange ball we call the sun quickly pulled itself free of the horizon and began its steady climb into the sky, bringing with it the warmth of another beautiful summer day at the beach. I wondered what visitors would come to my front door of the world today. I had been so intent upon watching the jogger with his dog I had forgotten to turn off my lamp. I had left my light burning all night because I love to watch the light chase away the darkness. Some would call leaving my light on a waste of energy but I don’t tell others what to do with their light just like I didn’t remind the jogger of the “scoop-it-up and pack-it-out” rule of the beach.

I was anxious to see more visitors to the beach but I knew I would have to be patient. They didn’t come to entertain me; they didn’t even notice me. But not noticing me was okay. If visitors to the beach didn’t notice me, they would be themselves, acting just like the jogger who didn’t clean up after his dog because no one was looking.

My next visitors were two women taking a morning stroll. I imagined them to be vacationers who had grown tired of the novels they were reading back at their beach house and the sound of the surf had invited them to take a leisure walk. They looked happy and were enjoying one another’s company. They carried their sandals in their hands and walked barefoot in the wet sand letting the dying energy of the waves wash over their feet. I could see their lips moving and I strained to hear what they were saying but the sound of the surf muffled their voices. I knew I was too far away to hear what was being said so I just made up pleasant words and placed them on their lips.

The lady closest to the water was wearing a white swimsuit with blue markings. She had on a white blouse unbuttoned down the front that shielded her shoulders from the morning sun. Her shirttails flapped in the coastal breeze like the wings of a seagull taking flight. She had blonde hair and a smile that would melt your heart. She looked familiar but I was sure I had not seen her pass this way before or I would have remembered her. Her figure was filling out in places she would probably rather ignore but that didn’t matter to me. I am old enough to understand that a soft glance and a gentle touch are remembered by the senses long after the footprints in the sand are washed away by the incoming tide. And as long as I have been watching this beach, the tide has ebbed and flowed, washing away any evidence of trespassers on nature. I decided to name this lady Soft & Gentle for how she made me feel as I touched her with my eyes.

The other lady, the one closest to me, was much thinner and walked as though she wanted someone to notice her. She looked like she could go the distance . . . like a runner or an aerobics instructor. Her swimsuit was color coordinated in cream and copper to match a perfectly tanned body. I instantly nicknamed her Tanned & Toned. Here I was watching Soft & Gentle walking with Tanned & Toned as they strolled along the beach of life. I felt somewhat guilty tucked away in my hiding place and observing their every move. I wasn’t trying to deprive these two ladies of their privacy, I just enjoyed watching them as they leisurely strolled along the beach in what I called the front door to my world. I knew the pleasure of their company wouldn’t last long. They would soon be out of sight and I could only hope that they would pass by me on their return to their beach house. I wanted to run down to the beach before they came by again and remove the dropping left by the jogger’s dog but I couldn’t. I wasn’t on beach patrol; besides I wasn’t allowed to leave my hiding place.

I loose track of the days here in the cliff above the beach below. Today is either a holiday or the weekend because people began to show up just after lunch and stake out their own private spot of beach. They plopped down coolers, lawn chairs, towels and food baskets of all shapes and sizes. A volleyball net was set up for afternoon entertainment. This was turning into a wonderful way to pass the hours that can be sheer boredom when the beach is deserted. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the private solitude that a quiet beach can invite. I’m just suggesting that there can be a healthy balance between solitude and life-in-motion. With the erection of that volleyball net I knew instantly that there would be a lot of life in motion today. There would be young women in smaller than practical bikinis revealing enough of their assets to distract their male counterparts in the volleyball game. I wasn’t disappointed as the afternoon crowd gathered and the flirtation games began. Remember, disappointment comes from unmet expectations. Although the scenery was pleasant I felt a little saddened that so much emphasis is placed on physical appearance. But looking beyond the physical appearance is easier for an older generation where there have been too many cookies and milkshakes to tuck into a bikini or a Speedo.

I didn’t learn too much from this festive party because they were too busy worrying about how they looked to their friends. If you want to discover who someone really is, watch them when they think no one is looking. Like the little boy looking to make sure his mother wasn’t watching before he picked his nose. The only person who would chastise him was his mother, consequently; she was the only person who counted as he turned his back to her and performed his nasal ritual. Ten years from now when he would be one of the young men playing sand volleyball, wearing his Speedo and flexing his budding muscles, he wouldn’t dare put his finger anywhere near his nose for fear someone would have the slightest suspicion he was digging in that direction. Oh, the things we do when we think no one is looking. But today I was looking from my hiding place high up in the rocks above this happy crowd.

As afternoon burned into evening and most of the beach goers had retreated to their cars and headed for home, some lingered and built a campfire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs. From high up in my hiding place above the beach they became dancing shadows against the flames of the fire. I could still see their faces in the flickering light. One couple in particular stood out to me as I watched their eyes meet and lock on one another for long moments. I played a game in my mind and chose them to be the last hangers-on. In other words, no matter how long it took or how late it got these two would be the last ones to leave so that they could enjoy the quiet peaceful darkness together. I did not know what would happen once they were alone but I did know that there would be an expression of their feelings for one another.

I was right about the couple, not because I am smart but because I have observed visitors to the beach on other occasions. The pattern is the same. Once they are alone, they begin to explore each other physically or mentally or both. Tonight it was physical. The couple first sat by the dying fire and held each other close. Gradually as the fire turned to nothing more than glowing embers, they slid off the log they were sitting on and laid next to one another in the damp sand. It was only by a sliver of moon that I was able to see that things were taking place down on that beach that were meant for their eyes only. I know that a better one than I would have turned away and given them their privacy but instead, I turned on my light and let it shine down upon them. You see, I am a lighthouse and I am not allowed to talk. But I can turn on my light and chase away the darkness.

That is what I do each evening as I try to help others find their way on the darkest of nights. Some are caught in the unsuspected light, surprised and possibly embarrassed like the couple lying in the sand below. Others are grateful for that beacon that can guide them safely home. I could not leave the light off to accommodate the couple on the beach for fear that someone else was lost and floundering in a dark unfriendly sea. I started to name this article “If Lighthouses Could Talk,” but then it would have given away my hiding place. If a lighthouse could talk, think of the stories it would have to tell. If it could write, think of the pages of journals that a lighthouse could fill. If a lighthouse had a heart, imagine all the romantic sunsets it would experience.