Moon tracked mountain man’s early-evening shadow over the Bay Bridge and across tidal flatlands last week, arriving at the sea just before me to hang bright- white and two-thirds full above the weathered wooden deck of my brother’s place on Fenwick Island.
On the cusp of the one week of 52 that I am privileged to draw salt air, my gaze once more fell on beach-house rooftops, glimmering canals, and the towers of Ocean City, bathed in Dreamsicle-orange haze three miles to the south. Coastal Highway, quiet in rare slumber, yielded to the muffled thunder of pounding waves, three blocks to the east.
The moon looked down upon it all, and I predicted that we would see it each evening if the clouds allowed, a little lower and later, until full-moon splendor drew the curtain on our hour upon the sand.
Fenwick’s not an island at all. More like a passing thought on the cruise between Ocean City and Bethany. Year-round population something like 500, and skewed senior. Cops are professionally laid back in deference to a largely benign vacation crowd, but they’ll pounce quick and hard if you park on the street.
Perversely, though, it is no crime that liquor stores charge a buck extra for a chilled 30-pack, an onerous breach of beer-store etiquette that so offends my Scottish instinct, I took to stashing a dozen or so warm ones in my brother’s rusty, fish-gut-scented garage freezer, before transferring them to the cooler; the chill before the ice.
It’s actually my sister-in-law’s house, as the bungalow on West Essex belonged to her parents, who retired at the shore and knew their final days there. During Kerns week, four sibs, a like number of spouses and significant others, and nine nieces and nephews ages two to 22 make for a memorable week down ‘e ocean, rain or shine.
Last week it was all the latter, day after day of ‘naught but sunny and hot. Had a couple afternoons where the winds were still, the surf friendly, and the water balmy. You sit on your beach chair and drink in the sights, along with coozy-cuddled Keystone Lights, knowin’ from experience, that it don’t get no better than this.
Vacation is a lot like life, in that death is closer every day, only the approach is so much faster on holiday. Five, six days tops. You wake up on a mid-week morning and remind yourself how sweet it is, how blessed you are to know the moment, even as the moment passes.
But then, that’s why God gave us beer, or as Benjamin Franklin observed, “Keystone Light is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” (My translation.)
Speaking of Founders and beer, I made my way to the jury room of the Mineral County Courthouse this past Tuesday, not to render collective judgment on an accused, but to kill time while the county commissioners broke for executive session.
On one wall of the jury room hangs a classic portrait of George Washington, and beside it, a large, framed copy of the Declaration of Independence. Printed in 1942, it reproduces the wrinkled parchment perfectly, words writ so large, it’s easy to pick out familiar names, recorded in their own hand, like “Th. Jefferson,” “Benj. Franklin” and, of course, Sam Adams.
The scribe’s handwriting is a challenge, but evident in the flowing script are the ideals,  passion and faith that birthed the document which bore a nation. Like standing beside the ocean, one is awe-struck in the presence of timeless majesty.
While I applaud the civic spirit of the fine folks compelled to serve on our juries, that 66-year-old work of art deserves a position of greater prominence in the courthouse. It needs to be more of, by and for the people, so that young and old of Mineral County can see the Declaration, read it, and consider it.
Went out on the kayak one semi-early morning last week, upon water that touches the sea, which is close enough for me. Rippling out of my brother’s cove toward a northerly dimple of Assawoman Bay, I saw up ahead something shiny, floating on the water. Paddled up to an empty pack of Parliaments, freshly cast upon the water, scooped up the box and tossed it inside, as I do when I encounter trash in the canoe on Savage River Reservoir.
In the moment of the doing, I thought of how both places reside so deeply in me, and in the moment following, I wondered if one could be both mountain and sea. Was it possible to keep two such lovers?
But then I realized I was looking at it wrong. It’s like your kids. There’s no either-or, more or less. You love ‘em all with all you’ve got.
As usual, The Boy and I slept in the sunroom at the beach house, beyond the cool confines of the AC, banks of windows open to the breeze. The last night, a full moon shone through the windows from mid-evening ‘till dawn, riding the southern sky, east to the west.
I followed the same path the next day and survived  re-entry, so that I am reborn to the world of work. Man is made to walk from the sea.
But it’s not that bad back home. You don’t have to pay a buck extra for cold beer, and every step is one step back toward the beach.
With me it is not ashes to ashes, dust to dust; it is sand to sand, salt to salt…