Study Leave V

When I came down this morning, Sister Frances was already there. “Sit down and eat your porridge.” The bowl was already on the table. I hesitated. “While it’s hot.” There is little in this world that can stand against the wind or the sea or Sister Frances. I took my jacket off and thanked her. She’s going to visit a lady in Toms River. An early start is necessary. So, the two of us sat eating as the place slowly came to life around us. Eating in silence can be an oppressive experience. So much hangs in the air, it gets hard to breathe. But it can also be soothing, a quiet meal with another. By the time I was finished, she was up and gone. Others came to take her place, but I had a walk to take.



I made up my mind yesterday to climb down the cliff. It is easier said than done. Boards, timbers, bushes, plywood, rocks, concrete, plastic bottles, gravel and all manner of junk lays up against the clay escarpment. Any step has to be picked carefully. Any step must be an act of faith. There are no guarantees that what looks solid is not about to collapse, even without the weight of a clumsy intruder. So, do it quickly. It collapsed. But it also deposited me on the beach. I moved away from the avalanche that followed me. Didn’t even get my hands dirty. God watches over fools.



The beach is mostly gravel, stones worn smooth, from pea size to a couple inches across. Sand that’s left is under these fields of small stones. They fascinate me. They are so much alike and yet each one is etched and worn individually, cracked along lines of inclusions, broken and then worn again. As I walked on them they crunched.



To the south of the center two houses hang, clinging to the cliff, parts of their supports and guts hanging over. Windows that had revealed breathtaking views were now boarded over. Yellow tape drapes across them like derelict Christmas decorations. They are broken, sad. These aren’t homes, they’re summer houses. But hanging there, they’re sad.



Further toward the jetty and bulkhead, a hole, ten feet deep, ten feet wide, has been carved out by the tides’ brutal intrusion. It’s eerie. It seems a grave for an SUV or a dream. Leaving it behind, I moved away from the rocks and timbers that still defend what’s left. And so, I found a gift. For some reason only known to the uncaring sea, the cliff there is only a high step for a stretch of fifty feet. A large vacant lot stretches at the top of the step toward Ocean Avenue, bordered by hedges, populated by a back yard timber jungle gym. The grass is unmowed, long and hummocked, if that’s a word. Perhaps since there was no structure to assault, the storm was kinder here. It left a kindness for me. I trudged through the grass inland to the road and back to the center.



As I came back I realized I hadn’t considered climbing back up the cliff. As I said, the Lord watches over fools.