Beach Synchronization:

From the second movement, “Moderato” The Celestial Altar There’s something about the sun’s setting at the end of a cloudless day draws a crowd. Especially on islands or mainland coasts where ocean horizons are pressing, people young and old – in couples, in family groups, and sometimes even solo – begin to congregate just as the touch of the air on the skin starts to cool, as if anticipating a display of fireworks or the beginning of a baseball game or hockey match. Off the coast of Sarasota where I live and may die without complaint the allure is so obvious only one altogether oblivious of the sun could fail to note as if there’s something special about certain kinds of endings, our fiery star’s routine descent. What the draw may be many drawn are likely never to have paused to contemplate, fearing, I suspect, such reflection might result in alterations to lives they’d prefer to pretend aren’t ever going to end. That they will – in fact, by definition, must – is the primary appeal of the culminating splendor of the day they arrive in droves to witness, yet they leave the site sight unchanged to arise (if they do) to the day that follows as if they’re wealthier or better off in some significant sense by the measure of what they’ve managed to accumulate through exertion or by stealth of goods or means the ends of which can be foreseen by all who see in the dust the wind when it rises raises over earth. It’s difficult even to imagine in a dust storm on dry Texas plains the sunset visible on an ocean island, yet the sun is setting all the same every day, as if extending to anyone interested in counting while able the days remaining before he or she is one with the sun and unable any longer to pretend our human separation from all that’s real as dust and aspiration born in the midst of storms on arid plains aren’t is a fiction and, aware no one can count to infinity, to yearn to celebrate the only object beautiful and true as the revolution of the planets – the human eye in worship. From the third movement, “Vivaci” The Tern's Example The tern flying into the north wind strains as if fishing for its life. Sitting at the ocean's edge after having tried swimming against the current, I feel the bird's effort as if it were my own. Some days are like the breeze against which the bird flies as if it has to if it is to see the dawn due to follow this dusk in which each of us is living. Though my swimming was purely recreational, I'm aware my body will be healthier longer and stronger for being exercised, and health and strength make life something more than, better than simply possible. Though scanning the shallows at the shore for fish, the tern, too, I'm sure, thrilled at the lift it received when it pushed its wings down, against the resisting wind and was propelled forward in the direction of the setting sun just off its left wing. We're both heading west, I think, whether we strive against the blowing wind or the wind is at our back or tail and living seems a breeze, like play. Ultimately, our journey has a similar destination and extends into the future in the same direction. Not that the tern, unlike me, realizes this. No, when the tern squeaks like a child's rubber duck it does so not in fear or dismay but, rather, in hunger or love, both of which a bird of strong wings can satisfy. It's I and my kind who sometimes seek the beach at sunset when the sky's clear to stare westward, as if an orange ball's descending in a lavender and gold celestial sea is a sight with the power to dispel our human trepidation and despondency when facing a far horizon beyond which lies what we can only imagine and, under the sway, the spell of beauty, find ourselves able and willing to try. From the sixth movement, “Lento” Bright Lights, Sandy Beach From May through October those living or vacationing on the shore are encouraged, sometimes required, to avoid allowing bright lights from their dwellings to illuminate the beach night for fear nesting or hatching turtles might be drawn by what they mistake for star or moon light and never find the ocean they seek. These same residents and informed tourists also know the season for hurricanes extends from June into November. Warm tropical waters are both tempting to turtles and conducive to the formation of whirling winds, the kind that cause tides to surge, provoke people residing in proximity to the ocean's edge to evacuate, and wash away turtles' nests, eggs and all. Anyone yearning for wholeness and union with the universe will feel such a loss which also reminds anyone who thinks about it no amount of planning can prevent nature from being naturally indifferent to the wishes and desires of unnatural man. Still, we are drawn to the sea as if it's the home it is for some turtles older than any man if not sufficiently wise to understand not all lights are celestial and those that aren't can lead a creature astray.