Beach Blanket Revelations

This past weekend my husband, daughter and I drove “out East” to load up on fresh berries for the purpose of making ice cream. Driving out we hit all of our usual pit stops: Briermere Farms for an apple turnover snack, Garden of Eve farm to see what was in season, and took a little cruise down Love Lane in Mattituck to peek into the window of the new café that opened there in the place of the bakery.

While our trips are, for the most part, food-oriented, we also stopped here and there to admire the natural beauty of the Island which never fails to surprise or leave us breathless. Sadly, we also often stopped to lament the latest uber-development of giant houses on tiny lots or strip mall build out.

Another thing that we like to do on these drives is to explore the little byways and inlets around the North Fork. Every time we think we’ve seen all there is to see on Long Island, we are surprised to find yet another little enclave that, blissfully, seems untouched by the march of “progress.”

On this particular jaunt, we stopped in the little town of New Suffolk, parking the car on a quiet street and walking down to the beach front so our daughter could splash in the “wah-tee” as she calls the water in her 19 month old parlance.

The tiny beach looked out into the Peconic Bay with Robins’s Island in the distance. A small monument told us it was the site of America’s first submarine station way back in the turn of the 20th century.

As my husband took the baby down to the shore I sat on the sand with the stroller, occupying my time by—I am ashamed to say—manically checking messages on my cell phone, rather than observing the clear blue sky, gently lapping water, and the happy people around me. I didn’t take deep breaths of the fresh air or peacefully observe the sailboat smoothly gliding across the south part of the bay. Instead, I remained absorbed in the hand-held technology that tethered me to the rushing world. So much so, in fact, that I hardly noticed the sand burning through my thin capris or getting into my shoes.

But someone else did.

“Excuse me, miss?” I heard. Squinting toward the voice, I looked up to see a trim, tanned woman in a bikini standing against the backdrop of the sunny sky.

“I had this blanket in my car,” she continued. “I always keep it. I thought you’d like to sit on it rather than on the sand. Please don’t mind the stain, it’s just a bit of coffee.”

For a moment I was speechless. Here a perfect stranger had not only taken the time to observe her surroundings, but me in particular and then took the figurative and literal steps to go back to her car and get a blanket to make my time on the beach more pleasant.

“My goodness,” I stammered. “Well, thank you. I’m fine…”

“No, please take it,” she said. “When you are done, just bring it over there, that’s where I’m sitting.” She pointed about 20 feet away.

I took the blanket and sat somewhat self-consciously on it. In my mind, thoughts raced. Did I look destitute? Or uncomfortable? Did I look out of place? Why had she approached me?

I looked out at the water and my daughter and husband splashing in the surf as I thought these things. Then my thoughts turned to self-reproach. She offered me the blanket because she was a good person, not because I was in particular need.

When we left, we returned the blanket and thanked her. She cheerfully said “you’re welcome! Bye!” she waved to our baby, then turned back to her sunbathing.

For the rest of the day, the woman’s simple act of kindness stayed with me. It was borne of nothing more than observation of her surroundings and a feeling of good will. I kept rehashing my own reaction and wondering about it and I realized that as much as I try to be open to others and observant of the world around me, sometimes I fail—as do we all. I then realized that as much as this lesson was hard to take it was necessary: How can we know our progress unless we can measure them against our failings?

The lady on the beach that day was clearly ahead of me in terms of a more spiritual interaction with the greater world. But it’s not a contest. It’s a learning curve. That day a stranger was my teacher and I thank her.

My hope is that maybe tomorrow I will have learned enough to be someone else’s.