days blend to one when you're on the right beaches: a study on ishiguro's style

I tried to write this in the same narrative style as Kazuo Ishiguro, since I just finished Never Let Me Go. I really like the way that he meanders through thoughts, memories, and anecdotes. It feels so human, so raw, like the transcription of a conversation you're having with a friend. And by osmosis, I picked up this kind of style, so I wanted to write something with it.

If you were to ask me, “Nicole, where would you like to go today?”, I think I’d give you the same answer one-hundred times. Even two-hundred. If I wanted to be poetic, I’d say I would give you the same answer three-hundred and sixty-five times— one for each day of the year. And my answer would be “the beach”. Like those Tinder profiles, where they try to sound introspective and mysterious by saying that they like to “take long walks on the beach” in their free time. But I promise you! I am not trying to appeal romantically to you when I say I love the beach. 

What exactly is so special about the beach? 

To be honest, I really couldn’t tell you. I don’t live around any beaches, nor have I ever. I haven’t had any life-changing experiences with the beach either. Like, my dead grandma whom I loved dearly never took me to the beach every weekend. Partially because my grandma lived in China. And I grew up in the States. So as you might guess, that wasn’t an option. 

Well, let me outline a few things that I like about the beach. See, when I say “the beach”, I really do mean the entirety of it. The ocean waves, glistening mesmerizingly in the sunlight, the cold sandy foreshore at low tide that exposed the small shells and creatures that burrowed in it, the warm, tan, sometimes white sand on the dry backshore farther from the water, all of it. Now that I’m describing it all to you in detail, it’s starting to become more clear to me what’s so special about it. 

When I was younger, mainly around second and third grade, I used to love collecting rocks. I’d collect pebbles from the patio in our condo’s backyard— selecting the prettiest ones and plopping them into the glass Voss water bottle that I’d kept from some hotel or cruise. I had read this book on rocks and minerals (it was a part of a set I’d bought from the book fair) and decided that these small, unremarkable stones were now going to be my hobby. Or maybe, it was just that I wanted every little beautiful thing I’d laid my eyes on to be mine. That sounds more or less in line with my other behavior at the time. Aside from rocks, I had many more trinkets that assuredly did not belong to me— before I’d stolen them. For example, I had this book on making “fairy” treats (treats that fairies supposedly enjoyed making) that I’d borrowed from my preschool’s library in Dunlap, and I liked it so much that I just decided not to return it. Luckily for me, I moved away the next year and got away with it. Another instance was the solar system necklace. I’d found it in a bathroom somewhere, maybe at my old dance studio or my kindergarten or my friend’s birthday party. It had three metal eccentric circles connected at the clasp, and on these circles were round beads of different sizes and colors. I thought it looked like a little solar system. So I took it. Some poor girl or woman in Peoria, Illinois is probably wondering where their precious necklace had gone all those years ago. Surprise! It’s hanging from the jewelry stand in my room. Sorry.

I was truly shaping up to be a kleptomaniac back then. I was more akin to a crow, really. Snatching up anything that glimmered into my grasp. I think I was afraid that I would never be able to see those gems again, and the thought of that terrified me, so naturally the only solution was to keep them safe in my possession. 

Anyway, that’s why I also liked to collect seashells, and any other pebbles on the seaside. Whenever our family went on a trip to the beaches in Florida, I’d walk slowly and calmly along the foreshore with my head down, looking for possible treasures. If I spotted something promising, I’d bend down, pluck it out of the sand, and get close to the incoming tide so that the water could wash the muck off of it. Sometimes I’d discover a real beauty— an iridescent shell or intricately patterned crystal. Other times I’d find that it was actually a dull, uninspiring rock and toss it into the waves. I liked the exhilaration of finding something worth keeping. I liked the feeling of the water gently washing over my toes as I rinsed my prospective keepsakes in the waves. Most of all, I liked the calmness that this ritual brought me. 

As a child that was always boisterously loquacious, (please appreciate my vocabulary!) always swarming my family members with my endless words, the quiet me was a rare luxury. As I grew older, into my middle school years, the chatter on the inside grew worse than that on the outside. It was even painful for me at times, to be thinking about so much at the same time, to the point where it all meant nothing. It was all stupid stuff. I can’t even remember any of it now— it must’ve been some anxieties about my brother’s friends being annoyed with me, or how there was so much acne on my face all the time, probably things like that. I don’t think these beach walks necessarily cured me of my thoughts, but at the very least, they offered me (and my family) a brief period of solace and peace. It was a chance for me to slow down and pretend I was in my own world, far, far away from everyone around me. Just me, strolling languidly on the beach and collecting shells, letting the cool tide tickle my feet, as my hair falls around my shoulders. 

There is always this breeze of calm that blows through the air and enters my body whenever I’m at the beach. Maybe it’s the view of the waves, rhythmically lapping against the shore, rolling upon each other in the ocean. Or the vast, blue sky, if we were out on a lucky day. The type of sky that extends for miles and miles, bluer and bluer still no matter how far you look. Or, the feeling of being in the water. Ocean water is always cold and never warm, but once you get used to it, you feel indifferent to the temperature. When you get in really deep, it just envelops you and you can pretend that you’re a fish. Maybe even a mermaid, if you’re into something fantastical like that. I always liked to swim. Not the sport. I was horrible at swimming for the sport. It required too much discipline and was far too painful for me. I always had the feeling that I couldn’t breathe well whenever I was doing sets, and I’d always panic when this feeling set in. But leisurely swimming? You’d have to pull me out of the pool kicking and screaming. I loved the smell of chlorine— until I associated it with the pain of swim practice, but even then I liked it. Back on the subject of the beach and the ocean, there was something so satisfying to me about being in the ocean. It makes you feel so small, with all that water around you and in front of you, but it’s not scary. Perhaps I’m just like Moana and I have a special affection for the sea. I’m probably not Moana. She had some ancestral stuff going on. I mean, maybe I did too, but probably not. All the same, it soothes me. 

Like I said, this calmness is precious to me, because it only comes to me at certain periods and places. It’s like I’m only allowed to have it for a small amount of time, this feeling of tranquility and “shalom”, (Hebrew for peace, wholeness, and harmony) before it’s confiscated from me, and I can’t find a way to anchor myself anymore. I can’t even figure out where to start. 

It’s also what the beach represents. Leisure, recreation, freedom. It’s a place far from college applications, hard-to-read classmates, and studying struggles. At the beach, you’re not a bad student. You’re not a bad daughter or a bad friend, or someone who never puts in the effort to become better. You’re not “someone with so much potential, if you would only use it”, you’re not running out of time or not good enough. You’re just a person standing on the sands, marveling at God’s sprawling creation. Face to face with el mar, la mer, 大海, the sea, everything just washes away. 

Sometimes I wish I could just walk straight into the ocean. Taking one step after another, until I’m submerged. And then I’d keep going. I’d see all the sea creatures that I loved to watch on those BBC Netflix documentaries. I’d dance with the jellyfish and try to avoid being stung. I’d find an ocean sunfish and cry when it dies for some pathetic reason. I’d look for ribbonfish down in the depths, for blue whales and schooling fish. And after exploring the vast pelagic waters, maybe I’d come to the surface and float like a star, although I’ve never been good at that. Maybe it’ll be high noon and the sun will beam down on my face and turn me into a tomato. Or maybe it’ll be the dead of night and I’d see the stars in all their splendor, the way that they were meant to be seen. 

Maybe somewhere in all that boundless ocean, I’d feel in my heart, with totality and finality, the peace that I’ve always been searching for. And maybe I could collect it, nestle it into one of those conch shells that people say you can hear the sounds of the sea from, and take it back with me to land, when I am finally brave enough to return.

So yeah, I’d like to go to the beach. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, hoy, mañana, y por siempre, I would like to go to the beach. 

the beach from manta, ecuador