The Rx-8 purrs to life sounding like a hungry kitten. I’m still half asleep wishing I had taken the time to shower and really wake up but the sleep I got felt nice … at the time. The break of day lingers for no one and that little extra sleep now threatens my picture taking opportunities. Even so, the longer route beckons and I hesitate only a moment on the decision. Time be damned, I'll drive faster! Quickly the RX-8's wide tires are turning dangerous curves into just another road.
The last corner reveals that I am not too late. The darkness recedes. Gray highlights converge and the stars’ mastery of the night comes to an end creating a soft pink haze peeking around the clouds that lightly sprinkle the distant horizon. The moon is hanging in the west awaiting its chance to sleep while the sun is just sipping its morning coffee.
A light film of sand baths the parking lots at Sandy’s Beach Park. My rear tires skid as we make the tight corner with too much speed. An old, black SUV sits quietly parked across two stalls and angled. The windows are poorly tinted and half open. A dark brown foot dangles out the side window. I turn the key and the hungry kitten is reluctantly silenced. The thunderous roar of the waves pounding the beach catches my attention. The thud of water hitting hard sand is deep and full pressing on my chest letting me know that danger is near. A rush of air follows like a deep cleansing breath. Today’s waves are much bigger than normal.
In the lee of the wave, is a man in a red, long-sleeved shirt and black shorts. Barely visible, he hurries along the wet sand like a sand piper searching for breakfast. His movements are quick and accurate though he is getting to an advanced age. In his hand, he holds a counter balanced black wand with a flat disc on the end as he sweeps from side to side. In a flash, he is down on his knees and up to his hips in the salt and sand filled water. Time is of the essence as the next wave is making its approach. The wand is slung askew on his back as he burrows into the sand with a metal scoop. Reaching in, he paws at the sand and stuffs an object into a netted pocket on his hip. With the roar of the next wave clearly upon him, he rapidly makes his way up the beach as thousands of pounds of water reclaim ownership of the space where he stood only moments before.
The foot in the black SUV wiggles sleepily. A film of salty sea spray bathes the windshield and hood. Today’s occupants, late of an all nighter at the beach are two woman and two men. They are all young and no doubt claiming to be at a friend’s house. One of them is snoring slightly and there is the faint odor of stale beer, pot and cigarettes.
My aluminum tripod hooks on my shoulder. It is ancient but thankfully light. The camera bag is not so light but my lenses and my camera are like old friends. They are worth the weight as I hop the concrete and descend the hill of sand. The red shirted treasure hunter makes another dart down into the receding water looking somewhat like a tern. The sand is soft between my toes but there is no time to enjoy the sensation as the gray hues are stepping aside for a reddish glow. He sees me and gives me a full bodied wave, his arm reaching high over his head sweeping from side to side. I nod back. He is lonely. It seems obvious to all but him. Maybe he does know. I’m not sure. In some ways, his overeager manner keeps him lonely. He compensates by keeping busy with the mundane.
I find my spot on the point of the sand. This point shifts from week to week and month to month as the ocean reclaims what is hers. Some days, this point is further south and other days farther north. In any case, the point allows me to take pictures as if I was waist deep in the water while staying mostly dry. Leaving my backpack on higher elevation, I’ve got my camera, lens and tripod settled as close to the waves as I dare. It’s important to shoot as low as possible without risking water damage.
Today’s task is to capture the sun rising across the waves of Sandy’s Beach. After the sun rises, I might also point my lens in the direction of some of the boogie board surfers. There is someone behind me as I focus and tune my camera. I know that he is wet and smells of the sea and wears the same red shirt each time he comes to Sandy’s Beach.
“Hi!” he says too enthusiastically.
I smile and nod. It encourages him to continue.
He is an older Asian man with pasted down black hair. Normally, there is a shock of hair that points straight up but not today. His smile is toothy on top pushing his lips aside as he talks.
“I found a lot today! See, there is this wedding ring. I bet it’s a new one. It’s just so shiny. Can you imagine? You’re on your honeymoon and you’re nuts enough to go into the water at Sandy’s Beach. You get crushed. I mean crushed and then dragged up the beach and the ultimate humiliation is that you lose your wedding ring. Imagine that! You lose your wedding ring. I mean, what do you say to that? I mean, the guys gotta say, ‘Honey, I almost died at Sandy’s Beach. Oh and I lost my new wedding ring.’ Do you think she believes him? Do you?”
I pause. Engaging in conversation with him can take on a life of its own. He squints.
“If you were her, would you believe him?” I ask.
“Nah, I don’t think so. Marriages aren’t all that strong today. Couples don’t know their roles. Couples don’t know what to do. They don’t … ” He is in mid sentence and darts back into the lee waves in search of his next find.
The glow is coming. Another wave crashes down surrounding my ankles and sinking the tripod deeper in the sand. I adjust the tripod. Peeking through the eyepiece, I adjust the lens again. I’ll do this at least 5 more times before pressing the shutter for the first time.
Another car glides into the parking lot and the tires slide on the sand. The fortune hunter waves at me. He’s found something else and runs up the beach to avoid another bone crusher. The car is a white stretch limo. Their occupants bound from the back doors.
“Hurry, it’s coming!” she shouts. Her white gown flows behind her. The veil flops in the wind as she sprints across the beach. Three men follow closely, a photographer, the groom, and what appears to be an advisor. The advisor is positioning her along the edge of the water. Pink colors are rising up at the edge of the distant Pacific Ocean. “Hurry!” she implores.
“No-no, dear! Put your arms out, out like this and flowing!” He demonstrates and she tries her best to copy him. The photographer seems uninterested as he frames and clicks the scripted shots.
She’s heavy. No, that’s too nice and I’ve grown tired of political correctness. She is fat. She is also demanding. The photographer clicks away almost randomly. Her arms are flowing out behind her holding her veil. In her mind, the wind is blowing through her hair and the moon and stars are swirling around her. In her mind, the force of her personality is the core of the universe.
She points at the sand and the groom comes closer with heavy feet, hands in pockets. He is ordered to smile and does so. The camera clicks capturing plastic expressions that will carry them for a few years before giving way to the sadness of their unhappy situation.
I capture a partial orange ball rising in the east. It is now mine and it will never be there again. An old Camry, red with a gray patch on the door swings into the lot but parks a bit further down the beach. The license tag indicates that it is a “Rent-a-Wreck.” The occupants are light as they exit. She clicks her hand-held camera at him as he gets out. Her laugh is lost in the wind and the waves but I see it on her face. She floats across the sand between the palms. He serenely leans against one and she reaches out and captures him again. I imagine that she has been taking his picture since they left Waikiki. He’s reaching for her and she captures his shy smile.
Her white gown is tight at the hips and loose at the shoulders. It slows her descent to the ocean. There’s a hibiscus flower tucked neatly behind her left ear. It's a dash of color for her white dress, black hair, and fair skin.
The orange ball is now completely in the haze as is shimmers. Another wave cools my ankles and red shirt just misses a crushing vertical wave. The first bride puts her hands on her hips. Ringlets of her dark hair float behind her. She leans forward, chin out. I can read her lips. Hell, I can read her mind. “Hurry up, I can’t stand like this forever!”
The second couple is oblivious to me. He steals her camera and snaps photos of her giggling face. Waves and a beautiful sunrise will not spoil her radiance. Her hand flashes up to cover her mouth. A small mole graces her right cheek giving contrast to her pale Japanese complexion.
I approach. Using hand motions, I explain how I wish to help them. His smile is a “don’t bother” and a “we’re not worth it.” I motion, that I wish to do this for them. He hands me his camera. With the light behind them, I set the flash to FILL and it comes out perfect. They are standing still and erect. The happy couple is put on hiatus for the moment and I take another. I motion, “SMILE,” and she giggles, click and her giggle is captured. I move them to the left causing the sun to cast gentle morning shadows across their faces. He smiles, she smiles, and I click. I turn them to face each other and the sun is at three quarters lighting up her face while giving masculine shadows to his face. Click, it’s in there. She leans in and puts her head on his chest, her hand gently placed under her chin. Click, it’s in there.
I contemplate their situation. His suit is cheap and rented. Wrinkles adorn his rented white shirt clearly on its second day. Her dress is also rented and ill fitted. They've started a life together with a dream vacation. All their savings were used for the flights and the hotel and they couldn’t afford a wedding dress or tuxedo. He is very practical and she defers to him in matters of finances. “Renting is better as that dress would never be worn again,” he would explain. This morning, she had convinced him to come to this beach for pictures before returning their clothes. He defers to her for matters of the heart and that is why they are at Sandy’s Beach at sunrise.
I click again though I’m not sure what I’ve just captured. Will this be a picture that they will look at 30 years from now and wonder who was the photographer. I look at the back of the camera and see their happy faces, enamored with each other and the sun peeking out. It’s good enough. Actually, it is better than the paid photographer 30 yards down the beach. I don't make it better. The camera doesn't make it better. It’s better because the subjects' warmth radiates right through the lens of the camera.
Handing it back, he offers me a few dollars and I laugh and raise my hands like in a bank robbery. No, not necessary. He takes my picture, bows and they run up the beach to the Rent-a-Wreck Camry.
The RX-8 awaits my key and the day awaits my assault. The sun is up and my moments with it have passed. Red shirt waves another gold ring at me. It is a very good day for him and he gets caught in another small wave. It is time to go home. My bride of 28 years waits for me there. The body board surfers can wait another week as I've just been reminded of where I want to be.
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