THE
Counter Culture
by Sandy Rea
Each year, on the day alter Labor Day, a
very formal ritual takes place on the beach in
Seaside. You have to be there to actually notice it
at all, but it occurs, like clockwork. There is no
name for it, however, it is ditlicult not to think ol
it in terms o f some sort ol reclamation ol turl, ol
boundaries.
The earliest 1 have been dow n there was
about 7:00 a m. Others must come before that. It
goes on all day, a slow, deliberate procession of
locals, many with their dogs, walking along the
shore for the first time in 3 or more months.
The\ tip then hats or nod at each other as they
pass, reserving this cordiality lor September, or
those w ho live here. There is an air ol solemn
respect for both the participants and the
magnificent stretch ot sand and w ater w e honor in
our promenade. Most arc older people, having
retired next to a beach they tell in love with years
ago. Many of them are long-time locals, some
born here. All arc ageless as they walk this day.
We are as one, and there is tremendous strength in
that. This is the true essence ol Seaside, not those
stupid races or gigantic inflatable beer bottles on
the beach.
W alking my dogs, Maggie and C happie,
down there is the greatest pleasure I know (with
apologies to See's candy). Y e l, those ot us who
live here know that it is a bad idea, it not
downright dangerous, to do so during tourist
season. For some unfathomable reason, certain
visitors choose to bring w ith them large, vicious,
totally untrained dobermans, rottweilers, pit bulls,
etc., turning them loose on the beach to maim or
kill w hatever other animals they can find. Their
owners appear to be amused, and seem genuinely
shocked w hen Rambo or Terminator don't respond
to their feeble attempts to call them back to their
sides. R. and T. are too interested in the fresh red
meat they have discovered, and have no desire to
go back and be leashed. So, 1 don't take my pals
down, for months at a time. I’m not sure w ho is
more disappointed by that—they or 1.
When we are there, I stroll (bum knee),
pick up bits of shell that shine like jew els from
All Baba's cave in the moment the water on them
catches the sun's reflection. It is impossible not to
take in huge breaths ot the clean and healing salt
air, to just stare out at the horizon and wonder
about the people who have done this exact same
thing before you, through the decades. Maggie
and Chappie "explore every inch of sand, pay ing
particular attention to those things that amaze
dogs, like seagull carcasses and large driftwood
logs. Maggie finds it necessary to Chase The
Birdies, a game that involves her crouching low
while staring at a batch ot shorebirds, wiggling
her golden lab-mix butt back and forth, then
tearing out after them as though her life depended
on it. She will chase them, hard running, into the
surf until they fly over her head as she swims,
never giving up, only waiting tor the next chance
at this. The birds arc quite sale—it's the chase she
prizes. Chappie, a corgi mix, on the other hand,
checks the dunes for lost sandwiches, then will
run back to the shoreline to join us, his speed
considerable slower than when w e first moved
here. He walks close to me, feigning loyalty,
when, in fact, he is too pooped to run with the
younger Maggie. He's mine. I'll get him down
here if I have to carry him, and he knows it.
On the day after Labor Day, the dogs
come back to the beach, with their people.
Because it is finally safe again, one secs the little
guvs—pekes, poodles, yorkies—on or of t their
leashes, prancing proudly alongside theii beloved
owners, taking part in the long-awaited march on
wet sand. These dogs, whether chihuahua or
akita, shepherd or shitzu, don't fight. They smtt,
perk up ears and tails, and begin racing in circles
with each other. Their joy, like their movement,
is unbounded. They celebrate, with their owners,
the return of the mutual respect that has been
missing from this beach for the summer months.
We walk, we nod, we tip our hats and
smile at each other. It will be the sane until
spring.
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