And so I am late writing about it, for sure. But I was there on time. I put it on the schedule and said no matter what, I’m going to set aside time for myself, at the beach, on the last Sunday in September.

I felt the need to get it in under the wire. The last weekend of the summer though technically it was the first weekend of the fall. The light was beginning to take on that slight amber glow, but the temperature still said it was warm enough to go swimming, if I wanted.

It’s after the first of September so dogs are allowed on the beach. Some frolic at the water’s edge. Some plunge in all the way. Some run up to the cutting line of the surf and then retreat as the foam grabs for their paws. They bark in victory as the foam slides back across the sand.

I didn’t make it here all summer for some reason and so it was really important to make it now. It’s important for all of us to get away before we return to fight again. Whatever our battle may be.

I was always told that this is the best time of year to be at the beach in New England. The water is still warm. The crowds have diminished. There’s parking. It seems like most of those walking the beach with me live nearby and consider it their backyard. It’s not my backyard, but I feel like I share their secret. I know something of this beach the summer tourists never will.

In my twenties, I started coming here almost every weekend during the summer, but as I got older the long drive no longer seemed worth the effort. A few times a year was more than enough. In recent years, I have waited until after Labor Day and in the very recent years, I actually enjoy coming here in the middle of winter. That’s when you really have nature almost to yourself, and a few others who nod toward you knowingly as they pass you by on the windy shore.

Every time I come here the frame is constant, but the picture within is different. The water and wind are forever manipulating the sand. Burying and exposing objects and remains that washed ashore long ago. In August, a large driftwood tree trunk is the perfect place to set out a blanket for a picnic lunch. By September it is gone. By next spring, half of it may be exposed once again.

There are sail boats and working boats on the horizon leading me to wonder what life is like for those on board. Night and day for both I suppose. One has the luxury to enjoy nature, the other has the necessity to work with nature. Do they both appreciate it in the same way?

The hungry ocean itself is ancient. Churning in the same way for centuries. My short time here, on this weekend, is not recorded. I’m insignificant and so are the challenges I face inland. None of that matters, the waves tell me as they thunder onto shore at high tide.

Walking back now, across the dunes, the high grass rustles in the wind. The flag over the yacht club snaps stiffly, but makes no sound that can be heard over the sound of the surf. The light bounces off the waves as they roll toward shore.

Onto the sidewalk of the village every other store is closed. Signs read; “Thanks for a great summer. See you next season.” There’s one place left open selling lunch, squeezing out the last dollars before the windows are shuttered for winter. They will not be back until spring, but I will.

In October and January and February. That’s when you get to know this place and when you get to know yourself. The working boats will still be on the horizon. Just another day on the water. Colder, but just like the day before.

We are consumed by turmoil of our own making. Nature has no time for such things. The ocean doesn’t notice. Its churn is more important than ours.