Beyond the end of the boardwalk bands of orange and yellow inched into the sky.  I would make it to the beach in time for the sunrise. The issue had been in doubt.  It had been a noisy night at the campground with devotees of the Southern rock jam band Widespread Panic holding a raucous after concert party.  Finally at 4 in the morning, in despair, I crawled out of my sleeping bag, stumbled out of the tent, and staggered over to ask them to please wrap it up.

Before falling back asleep I turned off my alarm giving up on the idea of a sunrise sit spot. But, at 6:40 a.m. a cardinal perched right outside the tent and whistled a loud clear whoit, whoit, whoit, a wakeup call, a summons from nature not to be denied.  Another reminder that whenever I formed the intention to do a morning sit spot nature offered help.

In the dim light I slipped into my clothes, grabbed my binoculars and camera, jumped on my bike and rode over to the beach at Anastasia State Park.

Beginnings

I liked the boardwalk.  Almost a 1/10 of a mile long it crossed over a wide scrubby salt marsh providing a transition zone from the paved parking lot to a four-mile long stretch of undeveloped barrier island beach.  The marsh, beautiful natural habitat, was a home to clapper rails that now greeted the morning with kek, kek, kek, kek calls.  A mocking bird, another early riser, saluted the dawn with harsh tchack, tchack calls. 

Near the end of the boardwalk the marsh merged into sand and then into wide dunes, ideal habitat for gopher tortoises.  These unique and endangered tortoises dig 30 foot deep tunnels to their subterranean dens.  Their abandoned tunnels and dens are subsequently used by a host of beach dwelling mammals and reptiles. The boardwalk, I reflected, led over a rich, interconnected community of life.

Heading down the steps, onto the beach, toward the surf I proceeded by a little flock of sanderlings, small gray, ubiquitous sandpipers.  They had been roosting for the night high on the beach crouched down on the sand or standing on one leg. In the half-light, still half-asleep, the sanderlings barely responded as I walked by.  Early morning beach buddies I thought.

I set up my chair near the shoreline, glanced down at the sand, and noticed a scattering of tiny sanderling footprints   At first glance the footprints seemed random, but as I studied them I realized that in the moment of their making each step of the sanderlings had been purposeful; a search for food, for shelter, for a mate, or for a purpose known only to them.

On Time

Along the southeastern horizon a brightening band of orange pushed above the ocean, topped by a yellow arc which in turn was crowned by a puff of pink. Right on time, the haymaker, the life-giver, the hope and renewal bringer, the bright yellow ball of the sun inched above the horizon.   

I watched as the sun continued its steady, inexorable ascent; saw it change from a tiny ball to a large glowing orb topped by a bright golden mushroom shaped cloud.  Beams of light shot across the water toward the beach, illuminated the crests of the waves, and cast a glow upon the sand.

As color shows go this sunrise was a more restrained presentation; orange, yellow and pink along the horizon beneath a blueing sky.  I noticed though as the first beams of light touched my chest that I immediately felt a shift in my breathing; more open, smooth, full, satisfying, uplifting, welcoming inspirations.  Few things are better than being present for the sunrise.

Shells

I settled in, emptied my mind as best as I could, and placed my awareness on the sights and sounds around me. I began to more fully see the crests of the waves form and fall and to hear the sounds of the waves. I inhaled the fresh salt air.  I watched the colors of the blue-gray water and the tan sand come to life in the increasing sunlight.

In front of me lay a patch of partially ground up sea shells.  Some of the bigger fragments caught and reflected the sunlight.  I studied the shells and discerned a variety of colors; white, beige, tan, brown, orange, gray.  I saw the remnants of shapes; cones, fans and tubes.  I watched the waves splash ashore, pile into the shells, push them around.  I was witnessing the grinding of shells into sand.  Looking around I saw more finely ground shells to one side, and fine pure sand to the other side.

It was the great grinding of innumerable, uncountable seashells into fine sand. I suddenly felt small and insignificant in the face of this process.  I realized that I could have felt diminished, could have felt that I too was a fragile chunk of minerals being ground to sand by the waves of time and circumstance, but surprisingly I felt a sense of relief, felt joined to greater processes of life

Moments

Looking down the beach I noticed patches of mirror like wet sand forming as the waves receded.  The shiny wet areas seemed to be growing larger.  The tide was ebbing; the water pulling back from the beach.

Gazing at the patches of wet sand I recalled that the human body is 60% water.  Was it possible that I too could feel the pull of the tide, the power of lunar gravity?

It seemed so.  I had always liked looking at the effects of the tide—the surge of high water, the open salt marshes, and bird attracting mud flats at low tide.  But this moment was different, a feeling of oneness with the rhythm of the tide.

A line of pelicans flew by, skimming just above the water; large ungainly, almost comical looking birds when perched, but graceful and powerful in flight, coordinated and efficient.  The lead bird took on the wind, flapped and glided; the others followed in perfect unity, the delicate communication of the flock running on effortless autopilot.

Watching the pelicans wing over the pale blue water, sharp silhouettes against a blueing sky I thought about the words of Jon Kabat-Zin in his book Mindfulness for Beginners describing the effects of full attention, “Here is where a moment of genuine happiness might be experienced, a moment of equanimity, a moment of peace.”

Sounds

I listened to the waves, a soft hissing as the water rolled up on the sand.  Further out where the waves first broke, a variety of sounds, kerthump, poosh, fussshhh, paashhh.  The sounds overlapped and mingled.  No pattern.  Closer in the waves offered endless variations of softer sounds— kerpoosh, kershh, swooshhh.

These were entrancing sounds.  I had always thought about and listened to the collective sound of the surf, but here was complex, random, soothing, every-varying notes and tones. I wondered had any musician ever captured the symphonic sounds of the surf?

The Fellowship of the Surf

I am always surprised to see the number of people who are out to view the sunrise.  This is probably because it takes me so much effort to get up early.  This morning was no exception.  Two young men arrived just after I set up.  They looked more like partying types, but there they were, dressed in hoodies, shorts and baseball caps quietly taking in the sunrise.

An older woman dressed in a yellow rain parka walked slowly and steadily by.  A young woman jogged by.  Two fishermen wheeled a wagon jammed with gear down the beach.  A few people waved, smiled or said hi as they walked by but most seemed absorbed in their own thoughts.  A man strode by carrying what looked like a thermos mug of hot coffee.  Ah, no fair!  Why couldn’t he have brought an extra mug for me?

It was toward the end of my hour, when I was immersed in my quiet sit spot mode, that I heard a woman’s very conversational voice right next to me.  “Oh, that’s a good idea to bring along a journal to the beach.”

With a bit of reluctance I pulled myself out of my focused state and explained that I was writing up my impressions from an hour sitting and watching the sun rise.

The woman continued, “I come out to the beach every morning and take a walk at sunrise.”

I responded that that seemed like a great way to start the day.  She elaborated that she lived in downtown St. Augustine and drove out to walk this stretch of beach, her favorite.

I was hoping that our conversation might wind down so I could enjoy my last few minutes of quiet sit spot time, but by this time it seemed like we were becoming conversational friends.

She said, “My younger sister died suddenly two years ago.  She was the picture of fitness and health.  When I come out here and walk the beach I feel like I am with her.”

I know enough from my years of clinical practice to understand the depths of grief and the difficulty of coping with loss. I felt myself slipping into therapist mode and accordingly offered comments of condolence, support, and what I hoped were words of encouragement.

And then, things got a little weird.  She said, “My sister appears as a circle of light, a bright green circle of light above the ocean near the rising sun.”

She paused and continued, “Her light matches what’s going on.  If I’ve been to yoga then she is moving around as if she is doing stretches.  If I’m in a quiet mood she holds steady in the sky.”

She pulled out her cell phone and showed me two photos.  In each a small green circle of light hovered over the ocean near the sun.  My western, scientific mind kicked into gear. I figured the circles were some kind refection or artifact.

I tried to cover my skepticism and murmured that I was glad that she had this connection with her sister and that it must give her a great deal of comfort.

At that moment a dolphin broke the surface of the water. The woman said, “Oh, if there is one dolphin there must be a school of them.  It’s a reminder for me to keep walking.”

With that she said good bye and headed down the beach.  As she walked away another dolphin breached.  She turned back towards me, pointed, and waved.

I dismissed the incident putting it in the category of some of the strange ways people cope with loss. A week later when I was back home I looked through the twenty some pictures I snapped of the sunrise.  I stopped when I got to the last photo.  There, next to the sun was a small, luminous, pale green ball.

I was surprised and humbled.  There may have been important things about life that were never covered in my professional psychology training.

This sit spot was conducted on March 26, 2022 at Anastasia State Park near St. Augustine, FL.  You are welcome to read about more sit spots and wander walks on this blog or in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.com and from Shanti Arts Publishing.

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)

Jon Kabat-Zin’s book Mindfulness for Beginners is a rich source for learning about mindfulness, teachings which in turn can be applied to Nature Mindfulness.