Looking East

My phone says 4:27am as I drop it into the center console. I pop the trunk to grab a beach chair, step up on a rock, and look out at the black ocean.

When we go to the beach on the west coast, we dutifully line up our chairs and towels facing west. We watch the waves, the kids playing, the sun setting. I have complied with this societal norm every time, but today, I want to see the sun rise.

I am here to look east.

Have I lived such a plain-vanilla life that turning the other way feels like an act of rebellion?

I grip the beach chair and think of the first time I came here to Lifeguard Tower #2. It was right after Kathy and I moved to San Diego for my promotion. Two years after that, my boss flew to town to say to me, “We’ve decided to make a leadership change. Today is your last day.”

I couldn’t get a job for four years. I lost my home, my dignity, and any reason to get off the couch - which is clearly a metaphor since I was homeless and had no couch.

Did my long battle with depression lead to that devastating failure? Or did failing lead me into the pit of depression? Both?

A dozen self-medication techniques, one visit to the psych hospital, five therapists, and a fistful of prescriptions later, I’ve learned how to sit with sadness in the dark. But it’s time to relearn how to sit with hope in the light - and what’s more hopeful than a sunrise? Maybe if it was New Year’s Day. Or if I brought puppies with me, or Ellen DeGeneres. But today, my plan is to just squint at the rising sun and let it warm my face.

I climb down the rocks to the beach below and unfold my chair in the darkness, my back to the ocean. Looking east. I am such a rebel.

But I’m an anxious rebel. My chair is facing uphill on the sand - what if I tip over backwards - what if I can only squirm and flip-flop like a spawning grunion - or a stranded sperm whale - or a politician…

My next fear: What will people think?

Morning exercisers will soon jog and walk by - they’ll spy me - facing backwards at dawn - defying all norms of beach behavior - and they’ll check their Fitbits to avoid eye contact - but they’ll peek sideways to get a decent description of me should things really get out of hand…

I have never not worried about what other people think.

I ease into the chair, without tipping over, and look to the eastern sky. It’s black with clouds. Maybe this “sunrise” idea will be nothing more than a slow fade from pitch black to gray, like the last several years of my life.

I kick off my flip-flops and dig my feet into the damp sand. Beyond it is a band of pebbles, then a layer of dry sand. Then a stack of boulders, then the road above, a sliver of charcoal sky, and then nothing but black clouds.

It looks like 7-Layer Dip - we should have that tonight - but we’re out of cheese - do I have time to shop - what’s on the calendar…

I reach in my pocket for my phone. It’s back in the car.

I close my eyes and hear the south swell rolling from right to left behind me.

The swell - the waves - it’s like that surround sound display at Costco where you hear the airplane zoom behind you - Costco has a good cheese selection - and we’re out of almonds and mandarins and hummus and we’re low on toilet paper but what time do they open…

I reach for the phone to check. But it’s still in the car, and the sun is still hidden and the waves are crashing, but no, I will not turn around, not today.

I am here to look east.

A tiny white bird chases a black crow across the wetlands, the first hint of awakening life.

Is the little one protecting a nest - is this a turf battle - like Uber and Yellow Cab at the airport - maybe it’s road rage - yeah - maybe one bird cut off the other without signaling - and feathers got ruffled - and somebody “flipped the bird” - and come on John - you’re here to look east…

I do. Nothing but darkness, except for the man dressed head-to-toe in Glow-In-The-Dark orange jogging the road above. He glances my way. Then he turns away to look at his wrist, and I chuckle, “There it is.”

Two women approach and see me, this strange grinning man facing the wrong direction too early in the morning. One woman turns away. But her friend waves to me. I feel warm, not on my face, but in my chest.

I look up. More clouds are blowing inland and there will be no sunrise. My hope is gone. I sigh and close my eyes to hear the rumbling swell behind me.

I breathe slowly, deeply, to smell the salt air.

I lift handfuls of cool sand and let it fall between my fingers.

Eyes closed. Breathe.

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

In… Out…

In…

Out…

In…

Out…

I open my eyes just as a ray of sun breaks through and backlights the lifeguard tower against the black sky. The tower looks like it explodes in flames.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, and the fire goes out. All is dark again.

Another handful of sand, slowly, between my fingers.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Another…

Three Mississippi…

Four…

Five…

Six…

Seven…

I rise, fold my beach chair, and wonder what’s on the calendar for the rest of the day. I head back to the car and pull my phone from the center console. Two and a half hours have passed.

I didn’t tip over backwards and squirm in the sand. But I felt the sand, I felt the earth, running through my fingers.

I didn’t feel warmth on my face from 93 million miles away. But I felt the warmth of a stranger’s wave.

I didn’t see what I came for. But that jogger glowed like the sun, the sun that will come again tomorrow, whether I see it or not.

I didn’t watch a blazing sunrise, but I saw a lifeguard tower catch fire.

And this morning, so did I.