On Foggy Shores, COVID and Kindredness

I searched in my wallet to find a five dollar bill and three singles so that we could pay the young girl who operated the boom barrier. She handed us a white ticket, stamped with the date and time of our arrival to the parking lot that we had, up until recently, only shared with a few other visitors who didn't mind the lingering breath of winter across the sand.

It was surreal to me how last year I was driven to this beach by my boyfriend, to help ameliorate the anxiety I experienced as the pandemic spread across the nation. I couldn't breathe freely, my legs would buckle if I attempted to get out of bed and I had an insane feeling of impending doom. What was really happening (unbeknownst to me) was that I was having caffeine withdrawals; I went from having about 5-7 cups of coffee a day to none at all in a flash. I remember reading an article that explained that the pandemic would cause people to forget to eat or hydrate; in this case my brew groove came to a halt, and when I finally had coffee the world didn't seem like it was coming to an end anymore.

Last year, I grew fond of watching the waves. When I was in my coffee-deprived, vegetative state, the news didn't help as they designated anyone with respiratory disease (I have asthma) significantly more vulnerable to dangers of the virus. But my lungs adopted the behavior of the water; the ebb and flow of the tide helped me to find a consistency in breathing and, ultimately, an acceptance of the state of the world.

During our most recent visit to beach, an engulfing haze clouded my vision of the shore. It was my favorite type of day: the sun was apprehensive in shining too much, the edges of it blurred by the surrounding overcast sky. From the parking lot, I saw distanced groups of humans hanging in the fog like statues. It was the most eerie thing to witness (much to my enjoyment), and I wondered suddenly how I might register in the mist to an onlooking eye. My boyfriend and I trekked out on the sand until we got to the shoreline where the sunlight danced across the water like skipping stones.

I felt the sand for dampness before I sat down and watched the waves breaking. My boyfriend turned on his breathing app for five minutes, closed his eyes and slipped into a realm of serene inhales and exhales. I remained, squinting at the vastness of the ocean as the wind brought the smell of saltwater to my nostrils. Where I was felt clear, as if I wasn't swallowed in the mist. I thought about it in terms of perspective: what I saw from the parking lot was one interpretation of reality and what I experienced within it was entirely different. I looked around at the statues of people on the beach who, at this point, looked like Azkaban dementors in the distance. Some people were flying kites, others walking along the shore and some were just staring, like me, out toward the ocean. 

Since the beginning of the pandemic I've wanted to know people. Not anyone in particular but also anyone at the same time. I scanned passing faces for an opportunity of contact: a nod, a smirk or perhaps even an articulated hello. A few people answered my invitation and it felt so aligning. In the distance we've adopted to keep ourselves safe from COVID, there in between bloomed a new form of interaction. To me it's a realization that, despite our differences, we are connected to a thread that renders us the same: vulnerable. 

I sat for a moment, there, in that feeling. I wanted to tell everyone that we made it through, and that there was nothing to worry about anymore. But that wasn’t the reality that existed— it was only the reality that existed for me in that moment. The fog rendered things beautifully uncertain; while it seemed so dense, we were all caught in it together like a constellation of stars in its murky backdrop.

I have been losing my grip on labeling people I don’t know as strangers and I’ve been proud to do so. I’ve never felt more connected to a passerby on the street than I have since the pandemic began; our mortality has been dangled above our heads as we fish for our masks before we enter the grocery store, restaurant or office. There’s something unifying about it. I smiled at the statuesque figures caught in the fog; all of us had been through a hell of a year, but still hadn’t given up on searching for something (perhaps ourselves... or hope) on the beach.

I’ve been squinting my eyes at people a little more when my mask is on, to signal that a smile does indeed exist underneath it. I also squinted my eyes when I was on the beach that day because the sun was a familiar stranger; it seemed like someone I swore I knew but wouldn’t mind getting to know again.