Out of the Fog : Part 2

A Walk on the Beach: Tales of Wisdom From an Unconventional Woman
By Joan Anderson

(Page 2 of 3)

A woman adrift-with unhealed wounds to prove it-a body forsaken, most daily functions given over to others, and a will detoured. I had retreated to Cape Cod to find some answers. Alone, in a warm and forgiving setting, I was convinced that I could right myself. But months had gone by, and I was still at a crossroads. Did I want to stay married or not? Should I continue writing children's books or do something else? What was the meaning of my life? Was all this soul-searching simply an exercise in narcissism? The only clear thought I had was that I didn't want merely to age . . . I wanted to compile experiences, lots of them.

As I gazed out the window, I saw that the thaw had created a formless fog that obscured all but the closest landmarks, not unlike my unfocused life. I strained to hear some sound other than the dripping of icicles. Coming through behind the silence, I heard a foghorn. Its steady drone called me out of my torpor and into the outside world.

I donned a yellow slicker, hopped into the car, plowed through the slush, and followed the horn to the shore as if it were a mother calling me home. Once at the beach, I walked gingerly, barely able to see my hand in front of my face. The sound of the lapping surf beckoned me toward the water's edge and helped me get my bearings. Suddenly, I knew that my goal was the jetty, a huge arm of rocks that defined the harbor at the end of this beach.

In fifteen minutes or so, I scrambled up onto the mighty boulders and began stepping from one to the next, intent on going all the way out to the invisible tip. Utterly alone, I felt a wild abandon and realized that I was enjoying the solitariness of my adventure as much as anything else. But then I took a few more steps and found myself inches away from the chiseled profile of an old woman. She stood tall, a black cape flowing behind her, and looked out beyond the rocks almost as if she were a figurehead on the bow of a boat. It took me a minute or two to decide if she was real; then she turned her sparkling blue eyes on me. "Well, hello there. Are we the only ones in this town in a fog?" she quipped.

I chuckled at her play on words. "I hadn't thought of it that way. How do you do," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Joan Anderson."

"Really," she replied. "How curious. I'm Joan as well!"

I was still startled by her presence and momentarily at a loss for words.

"I just moved here," she continued, filling in the void. "Wonderful town, isn't it? I can't get enough of this beach."

"Where did you move from?"

"Cambridge," she said. "And you?"

"We have a summer cottage at the edge of town," I replied. "It's my first winter here."

"Are you living alone?" she asked.

"Yes." And then I surprised myself by continuing. "It's been quite a challenge being solo after a lifetime of living with a husband."

"Where is he?" she asked. I hadn't intended to spill out my story to a stranger, but my own honesty had prompted her question, so I attempted an answer.

"On Long Island. He took a new job and I decided not to go with him." I had never recounted that momentous decision quite so succinctly and was relieved to be met with a warm smile. As if sensing my embarrassment, she began to move.

"Would you care to join me?" she asked, even though I was already following her. Waves spilled over the tops of the rocks as we tiptoed around the slippery seaweed and puddles. Joan sped ahead with an agility that left me dumbfounded. How does she manage, I wondered. She must be eighty-five at least. "How come you're so nimble?" I asked out loud.

"Dance, my dear . . . it's been my passion forever."

"Do you still dance?"

"Whenever I get the chance," she said with a backward glance, as she extended one arm and pirouetted on her toes like a ballerina. Although I noticed that she grasped a gnarly cane, it seemed like a prop and simply added to her extraordinary gracefulness.

"What brought you out here on a afternoon like this?" I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me.

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I was drawn to the grayness of the day," she said. "The mist sort of wraps around my thoughts and allows them to take hold. And you? What are you doing here?"

Copyright © 2005 by Joan Anderson.

About the Author

Joan Anderson is the author of A Year by the Sea, An Unfinished Marriage, and A Walk on the Beach. She lives on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and conducts weekend workshops for women throughout the country.