It was either my Sophomore or Junior Year at Union when I took a Graphic Arts course with Arnie Bittelman. For the most part it was a photography class… and I would learn how to develop my own film and make my own prints… and I actually learned something about composition and use of light and shadow.
My first 35mm camera was a hand-me-down from Alan (he was also into photography and had moved on to a better camera), and on a February weekend home I took Ellen over to Hammonasset Beach in Madison. I had decided that this would be a suitable location to pursue my art.
The day was spectacular. The sky so blue that it hurt the eye. Sun so bright that it set every object into steep contrast of light and shadow. I thought it was a perfect day and location to be shooting in black & white.
I loved the quiet of the beach. The cold air and blowing sand bit into my skin, my eyes teared and I couldn’t stop my nose from running… what we do for our art. I start taking shots… just of sea grass, of the boardwalk, a tipped trash barrel looking like a cornucopia for the seagulls. Plenty shots of Ellen, the collar of her short coat brought up to protect her ears from the cold… hands thrust into her pockets. Funny… for someone who always photographed so beautifully, she was very self conscious of being photographed.
And somewhere during this “shoot” something else caught my eye. A solitary woman walking along the boardwalk. No… she is not alone. She has a leash in her left hand and now I see her companion. A dog is sniffing about the beach. Not a fancy breed; but a Yellow Lab mixture is my guess and very happy to be off lead.
The woman is wearing a long dark coat with a shawl lapel, she is wearing a silk scarf on her head, sunglasses that nearly covers her upper face & red lipstick. She wears thin gloves and there is a swing to her arms that matches her firm determined step.
She walks past… and I begin shooting. The dark figure receding into the sun, casting a shadow against the sun drenched planking, the edge of her scarf spirited away from her face by the stiff breeze off the water.
I love everything about a beach in winter. Its solitude… and spotting a person who shares in its appreciation is never a violation of that solitude.
I go back there again… this time to take my troubled mind to run on its wooden boards.
I don’t like to run, although I have done a fair amount of it over the years. The most important thing to running distances is establishing a breathing pattern, next the stride and arm swing… and then, once those issues are resolved, I worry about not tripping… you know, if you don’t pick your feet up off the ground… you stumble on a stick, turn your ankle on a rock… stupid stuff.
The fact that there was a lengthy period when I was running 7 to 10 miles every day may come as a surprise. Ask Jonathan Mix… we competed in the 440 for Hamden Hall… an event Jonthan would usually win. An event in which I would usually finish third (I think I finished second exactly once… I think we had a Meet against the Jewish Home for the Aged). The fact that I completed the 440 was a miracle in itself… I was tired just taking our team jog lap before the start of a meet.
But somehow I find myself on that boardwalk again, on an another brilliant day. The sky so flawless it has to be an indication of the existence of God. It’s not February; but a warm month… and I fall into my breathing pattern. I see no one on the sand, no one in the water… nothing to distract me from hearing my breaths, to make sure the cadence is correct. My stride is put to what I reckon is an 8 minute mile… my arm swing counter balances the stride and my fingers are loose and open.
I have gone what I judge to be two miles… the minimum distance it takes for me to forget that I am running. The dunes to the right hold tufts of sea grass against the breeze and the area beyond the hillocks is completely hidden from view… in the distance you can see the salt marsh and tiny cottages spaced along its fringe…
Now, it’s merely a matter of putting one foot in front of the next. Hear the footfall on each board like the crack of a snare drum. The boards have long since turned a weathered grey… the effect of hours of sun, sand and sea… but in the bright sun, even the dull colour reflects white…
The boardwalk is an endless ribbon softly undulating as it traces the long shore line… one step after the next, sweat stinging the eyes, a re-check of stride… more steps, more miles…
The path now takes its turn, the boards pivot to the sea… not a raised quai; but rather a simple causeway kissing the top of the water… just to run toward where sky and sea meet. Step after step, one more mile to do, and another, and another… further and further out to sea… then I see the figure.
Each stride on the wooden path brings me no closer. Is it stationary, or perhaps moving away at the same pace? I try to blink the sweat away… to clear my eyes. I pick up speed to close the distance between us. The breeze strengthens off the water… and I can faintly see the impression of a scarf lifting in the wind.
It’s been a long time…