Watching the gifted flight of two gulls, one admires their remarkable ability to propel themselves through space, after ascending almost vertically from their roost on the beach. Among all living creatures, birds are unique in their flying skills. Humans cannot even levitate, much less fly. Perhaps that is why birds captivate our interest. Scientists study the aerodynamics of bird flight, but merely admiring the gulls’ effortless glide on a sea breeze this spring morning is enough for me. -- Diary, spring 2012

Waves come ashore this morning at intervals of about six seconds, one after another. We see their formation at the far reaches of the shallows, as they become whitecaps rushing shoreward. They break against the shore in measured uniformity, one almost identical to its predecessor. The surging sound of their breaking, the rush of water onto shore and its return to the sea, is an often repeated mantra, mesmerizing to the ears of those who listen. -- Diary, winter 2011

Ending a long drought, rain is falling on the beach. Striking dry sand, large raindrops make craters, similar, one supposes, to those seen in photographs of the moon’s surface. The welcomed, spring downpour is a blessing to the parched earth. Trees near the beach road seem to dance joyfully in their wetness. Burgeoning wildflower seeds, lying inert beneath the sand for months, will now stir with life. The rain waters the earth, bringing forth in time the abundant fullness of summer. -- Diary, winter 2011

In a world filled with demanding schedules, phone calls and mail to be answered, and other stresses, the beach is a welcome respite, a momentary escape from tensions of the day. Watching gulls in flight is a relaxing exercise for the mind. Opening one’s self to the tranquility of beach life is calming to both mind and soul. Sit on the seawall for awhile doing nothing but seeing whitecaps come ashore. Hear the breaking waves, not only with our ears, but with our hearts. -- Diary, winter 2011

In all their golden glory, daffodils are blooming near the beach road, flowers that dare appear while winter yet lingers, yellow blooms nodding in the wind. In some gardens they are refined and cultivated with care, but the ones we see today are wildflowers, springing up unbidden from weedy brambles. Among several other poets, William Wordsworth was charmed by their splendor and wrote, “…A host of golden daffodils…beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze…”* — Diary, spring 2011