Thrashing at Nantasket
Americans are raging in Washington, DC. Like an extravagant rash they have climbed the face of the Capitol building, broken the lips and now are infecting the nation's tongue inside. Congressmen have fled the building, afraid for their safety. Righteously angry, the rioters believe our government is broken and their future is being stolen.
Meanwhile, I'm walking on the beach, or trying to. I got out late, the tide has risen higher than I'd planned, and the water rushing up the beach, is forcing me to climb on the boulders of the seawall. The waves are big, messy, relentless, coming in so fast that the ocean continuously groans, never catching its breath.
In this thrash three solitary surfers struggle to get past the break zone. It is the work of Sisyphus, their progress undone over and over by beachward gravity of waves. One surfer finally makes it; a moment later he pops up, is standing. For an endless moment he skims on a churn half again as tall as himself. And deftly, before it finishes breaking, he flips off the back of the wave and paddles seaward, getting ready to catch another one.
I'm standing in the wind riveted by the drama, hoping he'll succeed again.
This is the longing I feel for my country today: that we’ll stand up again, invigorated like the surfer, in another life-affirming, forward glide over the turbulence. Please, please, please…
The surfer has more patience than I do; before the next good wave comes, I've walked back to the car. I sit there in the warmth, watching the waves and listening to the news.
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