Sandwriting

A little bit of "Sand in Our Shoes" . . .

Sand tells stories of love and life

By Sue Fagalde Lick

"Mike loves Terry" stretches across the smooth sand like a sign painted on top of a barn. From 130 steps up at NW 21st Street in Lincoln City, the letters are clear. Down on the beach, they are too big, like newspaper headlines when your arms aren't long enough and you're too proud to wear reading glasses.

Oregon's beaches are a giant blackboard. Back in the '50s, when the teacher left the room, we kids hurried to the board, writing our names, drawing pictures, insulting each other, hastily erasing it all when we heard the teacher's high heels tapping down the hall. Funny how stage fright overwhelmed these same kids when the teacher called them to the board to write out a math problem or a spelling word.

It's the same way with letters on the sand. I never see anybody writing them, yet when I look down from above, I read "Mike loves Terry." I always wonder if Terry sees it. Is she embarrassed or pleased?

The message varies. "Happy 40th birthday, Tina." "Joey Barnes was here." "Seniors rule." The difficulty of pulling a big stick through the hard sand keeps the writing succinct. One draft.

Sometimes after a storm, the ocean writes its own message, covering the beach with wood, soggy clothing, dead gulls or quivering jellyfish. During last week's storms, the blackboard was gone, buried in churning waves that threatened to engulf anyone who dared come down the stairs. Then the sun came out and the sea uncovered a fresh slate for the lesser poets.

On a moody walk years ago on Seacliff Beach in California, I found Bible tracts in the sand. "Jesus is good." "Expect miracles." "God is all." It was almost as if a divine being had put them there to pull me out of my funk. I walked around them, afraid to disturb a single letter.

That same beach years ago was where I proved to my fisherman grandfather that I knew how to write my name. How proud I was. Susan Fagalde, I wrote in big block letters just beyond Grandpa's tackle box and homemade pole-holder. Clarence's granddaughter, a tanned little beach bum with black ponytails and pedal pusher pants who dug up sand crabs for Grandpa to use as bait, had mastered the family name and immortalized it in the sand.

Long after the waves erased my old name, I returned to that same beach as a troubled adult and used the sand to work things out. I wrote lists and plans in the warm sand in tiny letters with my fingers, then erased them and started over until I felt I had churned through all the items on my agenda. It was cheap but effective therapy, leaving no trace behind.

I have yet to write on Oregon's beaches. Perhaps it's just too cold to sit on the sand that long, or the dog is too impatient to wait while I clean out my psychic closet. Maybe I have nothing to say yet.

Meanwhile, the beach is a big blackboard that erases itself, like those cheap magic tablets Mom used to buy my brother and me on vacations so we'd keep quiet in the back of the car. You can write on them with anything hard, even your fingernail, then lift the gray film and, poof, it's all gone. No need for great art; you can't save it anyway.

Just before a river crosses the sand on its way to the ocean at 26th Street, I find a series of unsigned messages, a story too painful perhaps to say out loud or write in a letter. "Dad, your (sic) a jerk," says the first one. Then, "I hate you sometimes, Dad." Nearby, "I love you when your not being a jerk." And then, "I love my family." Does that family include Dad?

Close by, I read, "Happy birthday, Shawne." The writing is already starting to fade. My dog has left her pawprints across Shawne's name. "Off," I scold her.

Near the shorter stairs I take back up to the street, I find more writing. "Tonnysux." Misspelled insult or unfortunate name? "Down with Crips." I shiver. Gangs? Here? I hurry up the sandy steps, stopping halfway to look back down. I see the ocean, blue tinged with orange in the waning sunset. I see the sand, a glowing golden sheet. I see "Terry loves Mike."

By tomorrow, the waves will have erased every word on the beach, leaving a clean slate for the next sand writers. I wonder: Are the feelings expressed in the sand as temporary as the words that proclaim them? Is the sand a place to try out an idea, knowing it doesn't have to be perfect or certain?

I feel an urge to run back down before the light fades, grab a piece of driftwood and write "Sue was here." But who would see it in the dark? By morning, it would be gone. Perhaps another day, another beach.