It started with six simple words.
“Want to go to the beach?”
Trish didn’t have to ask twice.
Our grandchildren had finally headed home after a wonderful three-week visit. The house was suddenly…quiet.
Almost suspiciously quiet.
So off we went to Narragansett Beach.
Within thirty seconds, I realized the first one to welcome us wasn’t a lifeguard.
It wasn’t another beachgoer.
It wasn’t even the ocean.
It was…
A Ring-billed Gull.
Now, if you’ve never really watched one of these birds, let me save you years of research.
They are professional thieves.
Organized.
Patient.
Highly trained.
That gull wasn’t strolling down the beach.
He was conducting surveillance.
He walked slowly.
Looked left.
Looked right.
Paused beside a beach chair.
Another few steps.
A casual glance toward an unattended cooler.
Then another.
He wasn’t looking for scenery.
He was looking for lunch.
Somewhere there’s probably a Gull Academy where young birds learn advanced tactical maneuvers.
Lesson One: Pretend you’re not interested.
Lesson Two: Walk closer.
Lesson Three: Closer.
Lesson Four: Wait for the human to say, “Honey, can you watch my sandwich for a second?”
Lesson Five: Launch Operation Hot Dog.
I’ve witnessed aerial raids that would make the instructors at TOPGUN applaud.
French fries disappear faster than socks in a clothes dryer.
Hot dogs have a life expectancy of about four seconds.
And potato chips?
Forget it.
If you hear wings…
Protect the snacks.
The gulls have absolutely no shame.
They’re basically pigeons with better public relations.
Of course, standing proudly in the distance is The Towers.
If Narragansett had a family portrait, The Towers would be in the middle of it.
They’ve greeted generations of beachgoers.
Kids.
Parents.
Grandparents.
And now people like Trish and me, who still think a walk on the beach beats just about anything else.
My neighborhood has practically been gathering around Chair Number Five since Jesus was a carpenter.
Different families.
Different umbrellas.
Same laughter.
Same stories.
Same beach.
That’s the beauty of traditions.
Nobody schedules them.
They just keep happening.
The beach itself was putting on its daily performance.
Surfers balancing effortlessly on rolling waves while the rest of us wonder how they make standing on moving water look so easy.
Children building sandcastles that have approximately the same life expectancy as a snowman in July.
The Atlantic sparkling like someone had dumped a million diamonds into it.
And Trish…
Well…
Trish was on a mission.
She became the self-appointed Curator of the Narragansett Museum of Things That Washed Ashore.
Every few feet…
“Oooo…”
Another shell.
“Oh, look at this!”
Sea glass.
“What a beautiful rock!”
Now, I love my wife dearly.
But somewhere along the way every beach walker reaches the point where perfectly ordinary rocks suddenly become “collectibles.”
Apparently, beauty really is in the eye of the shell-holder.
Then she stopped.
Completely.
“You know what THIS is?”
She was grinning from ear to ear.
I leaned in.
“A Mermaid’s Toe!”
Now…
I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s childhood.
But if we’re being scientifically accurate…
That wasn’t a Mermaid’s Toe.
At best…
It was a Mermaid’s Toenail.
Please don’t tell Trish I said that.
I’d like to celebrate another anniversary.
We kept walking.
Talking.
Laughing.
Enjoying absolutely nothing in particular.
Which, if you think about it, is one of life’s greatest luxuries.
Then…
It happened.
Trish stopped.
Again.
Not because she’d found another mythical body part.
Not because she’d discovered buried pirate treasure.
She had reached…
The Seawall.
She just stood there.
Looking at it.
Studying it.
Almost as if she expected it to politely move out of the way.
I wasn’t sure whether I should press an imaginary reset button…
Offer encouragement…
Or simply wait until she accepted that we’d officially reached the end of today’s expedition.
Meanwhile, I did what photographers do.
I started taking pictures.
The sunlight danced across the water.
Waves crashed against the weathered granite.
One after another.
For decades.
Maybe a century.
The wall never complained.
The ocean never quit trying.
It’s an argument that’s been going on longer than any of us have been alive.
And somehow…
Neither side ever wins.
As we turned around for home, I looked back one last time.
The surf kept rolling toward shore.
A surfer caught another wave.
The gulls continued plotting their next felony.
The Towers stood exactly where they’ve always stood.
And overhead…
Old Glory snapped proudly in the salty breeze.
That’s Narragansett.
A place where the scenery is beautiful…
The people are friendly…
The gulls are career criminals…
And a simple walk with the woman you’ve loved for decades somehow turns into another memory you’ll laugh about for years.
Besides…
Somebody has to keep an eye on those gulls.
They’re definitely up to something.
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