By Shannon
Criminal attorneys see the worst of society. Sometimes we're lucky enough to notice the best.
In the beginning of Moby Dick, the narrator says: “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
Well, I strongly agree. The sea has always provided the best attitude-adjuster for me. So, this weekend I took a roadtrip alone to a beach several hours away. I walked the sidewalk above the beach. I ate seafood. I shopped in the local gift shops. When the sun's intensity waned enough to permit my fair skin to enjoy the beach without burning, I walked the water-packed sand, marveled at the pelicans and seagulls, and laughed at a fisherman waving his pole like a sword at the birds that kept diving in and stealing his fish before the fish chomped down on his hook. I stopped and watched a man dressed in a full wet suit with a boogie board tied around his waist and trailing behind him as he operated a metal detector in waist deep water hoping for hidden treasures. I tried to count the number of breathing holes in the wet sand left by hermit crabs who lay just under the surface, but there were just too many to count. I obtained a pinkened nose.
It was perfect.
Then I made one last observation. I had been walking the beach for so long that the sun was 30 minutes from setting. There were very few people left - a family, a lone woman, another man with a metal detector and me. Just as I started to step down I glanced down and then I almost fell down trying not to ruin the message written with a child's hand in the sand. It was a message of love to her parents. I knew the sea would erase it by morning, but I wasn't going to mess it up. Then I looked up and saw that in this section of beach every few feet there were more messages written in the sand. Some were done by adults and some by children, but all included love. Then I looked closer. There were 4-wheeler marks here and there and foot prints here and there and holes dug here and there, but none of these messages had been stepped on, written over, or driven over. Why? For the same reason I didn't step on them. They were not my messages to erase or deface. My perfect night was made more perfect with the realization that people had been courteous to others they may never meet by leaving their messages of love alone for the sea itself to erase.
Criminal attorneys see the worst of society. Sometimes we're lucky enough to notice the best.
In the beginning of Moby Dick, the narrator says: “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
Well, I strongly agree. The sea has always provided the best attitude-adjuster for me. So, this weekend I took a roadtrip alone to a beach several hours away. I walked the sidewalk above the beach. I ate seafood. I shopped in the local gift shops. When the sun's intensity waned enough to permit my fair skin to enjoy the beach without burning, I walked the water-packed sand, marveled at the pelicans and seagulls, and laughed at a fisherman waving his pole like a sword at the birds that kept diving in and stealing his fish before the fish chomped down on his hook. I stopped and watched a man dressed in a full wet suit with a boogie board tied around his waist and trailing behind him as he operated a metal detector in waist deep water hoping for hidden treasures. I tried to count the number of breathing holes in the wet sand left by hermit crabs who lay just under the surface, but there were just too many to count. I obtained a pinkened nose.
It was perfect.
Then I made one last observation. I had been walking the beach for so long that the sun was 30 minutes from setting. There were very few people left - a family, a lone woman, another man with a metal detector and me. Just as I started to step down I glanced down and then I almost fell down trying not to ruin the message written with a child's hand in the sand. It was a message of love to her parents. I knew the sea would erase it by morning, but I wasn't going to mess it up. Then I looked up and saw that in this section of beach every few feet there were more messages written in the sand. Some were done by adults and some by children, but all included love. Then I looked closer. There were 4-wheeler marks here and there and foot prints here and there and holes dug here and there, but none of these messages had been stepped on, written over, or driven over. Why? For the same reason I didn't step on them. They were not my messages to erase or deface. My perfect night was made more perfect with the realization that people had been courteous to others they may never meet by leaving their messages of love alone for the sea itself to erase.
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