All photos by me, on iPhone.

Watching the foamy white energy from the Pacific crash onto land, I realize my mind is blank. Coming out of a daze, I look around me, then down at one of my favorite possessions. I’ve had this towel for over 6 years; years during which I’ve carried it around the globe on my various solo treks.

I’m resting on overcast Manzanita Beach, Oregon, after hiking Neahkahnie Mountain — one of my favorite hikes due to the staggering panoramic view at the top. For the first time, it was too cloudy to see anything up there. That was disappointing, but I stayed at the summit for a half hour to enjoy the treetops and the sounds of nature. Though I couldn’t see them, through the clouds I could hear the waves swelling and swaying. They called out to me, reminding me they were there, like they always are.

A feeling of glumness washes over me as I sit on my towel post-hike, even though I’ve felt either content or lit all day long. I came here to heal, hoping to pull myself out of a deep, dark spell that I’d fallen into after resisting the currents in my life. Burying my toes in the soft, July-warmed sand, I recalled previous times I’d ventured to the beach. It felt familiar to sit on a beach with no company other than my own, and usually, my time on the beach was for reflection.

Reflection

I’ve traveled all over the world by myself, but this is the first time I’ve gone to the Oregon coast on my own. A place I’ve been to hundreds of times, ever since I was a kid, with family, friends, and boyfriends. Spontaneous day trips, weekend trips, and the occasional weeklong trip flooded my memory. 

In recent years, I’ve conquered beaches in Costa Rica, the Cook Islands, Hong Kong, Ecuador, and Chile. Oh, and the charming Dutch Caribbean island of Curaçao. I discovered a lake beach in Guatemala last November. I’ve visited river beaches in and around Portland for my whole life.

Aside from Aitutaki and Rarotonga in 2013, Chile is home of the first beach I spent significant time at alone. I perched pensively on the rocks of Peru Avenue in Viña Del Mar, which hosts a colder, but beautiful, set of beaches. I’ve never swam there, but I’ve thought there. A lot. I remember standing on the dunes of Concón a few weeks after having arrived in Chile in 2018. I was drowning in a deep melancholy, and I’d been unsure why. I’d just accomplished a major goal of mine by relocating there.

14 months later, on the same Peru Avenue, my cup was full. I felt complete. I was proud of what I’d accomplished in Chile, and the fog had cleared. I had clarity on why I was sad a year prior, and I’d surmounted it, becoming a stronger, wiser version of myself.

Presence

I look back up at the powerful ocean waves. I hope that the next time I’m at the beach, I feel something like that. I’ll have something to smile about and I won’t be able to stop. Closing my eyes, toes still submerged, I mentally transport to this future self.

Envision

I recollect the period of time from which I’ve just emerged and feel grateful for all that I learned. I shake my head with a chuckle, maybe even throwing it back as it turns into an uproarious laughter. I don’t care how this makes me look to strangers. I remember all the times I’ve re-emerged from the obscure depths, eons wiser than I was before diving in. Every time before, I told myself I will remember next time. I’ll remember, even while blinded and suffocated, that things are always alright. That the current is beautiful because it forces you to swim harder, rise up, and grow. Embrace your obstacles, I always say, because they are an opportunity to level up.

I regard the waves. No matter how high I climb, they are always there — swelling, crashing, and rescinding. At times they’re stronger than others, sometimes they pull me under. Whether or not I can see them, they’re stirring. The waves of life oscillate up and down, in and out, taking no mercy.

Knowing this, I remind myself to surf.