I am hopelessly romantic when it comes to the beach. My wife and I began our friendship, and later on our romance, while spending hours by the seashore. I’d taken a black-and-white photo of Times Beach then, long before it became the embarrassment that it is now. On the back of it, I scribbled that I hope she kept it as one of our more eloquent mementos of a rich, colorful experience.

Years later, I find that my children aren’t strangers to the beach, or to the other things that resemble serenity. We acquired a small patch of beachfront in Aundanao, Samal, in the Philippines,  and although we’ve yet to visit it regularly, the exhilaration in the few times we’ve been there was unmistakable.

Beaches and family are synonymous, as they should be. In an intimate sense, both are home.

In a letter to friends two Decembers ago, I wrote:

Let me tell you about my kinship with the beach. Ever since I can remember,  something in the vastness of open space, the salty breeze, and the sound of crashing waves has captivated me.

Just after high school, I told my friends that one day, I’d have a wife and children, a big family dog, and a house whose floor-to-ceiling windows would open to the vista of a tranquil beach. I guess I composed the picturesque dream from the prose and poetry of the times, the conversations on mantras and Third Eyes, and steamy notions of love with my wisp of some girl I knew, who thought, by the way, that the beach was a silly idea.

It probably was. That was in 1976, in a decade that was starting to bid adieu to psychedelic art, existential thoughts, and protest songs. Suddenly, with the 1980s upon us, owning a personal computer became everyone’s dream. I was no exception. And my beach took a backseat. 

A text message I received over the Yuletide wished me a meri xmas n mor money in d coming yr!  Even decking the halls, it seems, doesn’t free us from our mundane worries.

But who can blame us? For a long time I actually believed that we’ve become hopeless as a  nation. Yet our children continue to challenge our cynicism with their intelligence, creativity, and daring. If they can’t be our wellsprings of hope, then what can?

Which brings me to note this: that in our mad scramble for material security, there may be many more positive things that we’ve taken for granted, like lighting birthday candles in the dark, or keeping a night’s vigil over a son with high fever, or sharing stories with a daughter on the threshold of adulthood. Some find solace in reading a book or praying the rosary. Others discover grace in ageing, humility in difficulty.

At the end of the day, come to think of it, maybe it isn’t the things we covet that truly matters. What does, are the small but lasting fortunes that come our way.

Let us appreciate the little, or the lot, that we have. Like opening a French window to a morning at the beach, it’s always a nice way to start the new year.