Coastal Voyager

In search of my perfect beach

I have to say in all honesty that I've never seen a beach I didn't like. By their very nature, water meeting land, beaches delight me. Whether they be sugar white or tawny, sandy or rocky with calm, crystal clear or churning, dark water, I find them inspiring. Always on a beach I feel a sense of wonder. The beach is my church, my mosque, my synagogue.

But my perfect beach. That is a thing all together different. It's more of a concept than a reality, bits and pieces pulled from all the amazing beaches I've ever seen. Perhaps impossible to find, like the perfect man or woman.

I'm sure you too have your own concept of your perfect beach. For my mother, the perfect beach would be of the Gulf Coast variety. When I lived near the Atlantic Ocean in the Cocoa Beach area, she only visited once, pooh-poohing our long, gray beaches and turbid waters.

My concept of the perfect beach is a bit like the images of deserted Caribbean beaches in those classic Corona beer commercials. The camera lingers on the glowing turquoise waters, blue sky, white sand and green palms. The only sound is from the waves and the Corona.

Usually, no matter how spectacular a beach is, there are small distractions or annoyances. Like the gorgeous beach at the Dominican Republic all-inclusive resort that was covered in hundreds of sunbathers. Sometimes it's jellyfish or lumps of seaweed that detracts, sometimes its a rocky entrance into the water, sometimes rough waves or dangerous currents. Being an optimist, I tend to focus on the beauty, feeling very blessed to be on a beach.

Part of what defines a beach as perfect for me is being able to walk out of my door and it be there. And I should the only one or one of the only ones there. Probably that idea was etched in my mind as a child because the budget mom-and-pop hotel we stayed in on the outskirts of Panama City Beach each year provided that. And the sand should be near white and the water crystal clear. Check off two more for early childhood memories.

But the neon turquoise water color I crave? That hit my wish list the first time I visited the Caribbean. I was in my early 30s and on assignment to track down some builders who had run off to St. Croix after pocketing an elderly couple's cash. When I saw the colors of that island's waters I became obsessed, and forever changed. That's what happens when you come across one of your favorite things in all the world for the first time.

Recently I had the good fortune to come across a beach that is as close to perfection as I've ever found, the beach at Lighthouse Bay Resort in Barbuda. The small luxury resort itself is on a miles-long ridge of sand sandwiched between the Caribbean and Codrington Lagoon. The lagoon and most of the land around it are in a protected wildlife area, so realistically the resort is only accessible by taking a boat across the lagoon.

Because summer is the low season in Barbuda, I was only one of three guests staying at the resort, and the only people in the vacinity were a couple on a catamaran anchored a mile down the beach. Every time I walked on the beach or swam in the warm Caribbean waters I was blissfully alone, hearing only the sound of the wind and the sea.

The pristine beach goes on for miles in each direction for as far as the eye can see, just sand and low-lying vegetation. And that sand, tinged a golden pink, is powder soft to the feet. Flecks of pink coral decorate the beach in slender bands at water's edge.

The water itself is a crystal clear turquoise with a lake-like calm. Floating in the gently undulating water there is reassuring. You feel yourself lifted up as if by the hands of God.

I want to burn the sights, sounds and sensations of that beach deep into my memory, forever remembering the mystic being in those perfect moments ...

Is the search for my perfect beach over? No, far from it. The standard's just been raised.

As my Dad used to quote from Tenneyson's Ulysses: "... all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move."

Lighthouses of Cape Cod, Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard

Growing up in a landlocked southern city into my early adulthood, my knowledge of lighthouses was only based on photographs, movies and TV. From those sources it seemed almost all lighthouses were on the sea-sprayed rocky coast of Maine.

Even so, those representations stoked my early passion for the maritime icons, which continue to have a haunting attraction for me. I always search out lighthouses on my coastal travels. They are beautiful in their architectural simplicity as an obelisk or well-designed skyscraper. They are symbolic of the concept of a guiding light. And they have been lifesavers for mariners throughout much of recorded history.

History has it that before lighthouses a fire was set at the edge of the water or on a hill to guide fishermen and traders home. The first lighthouses are said to have been built by Egyptians, including the Seventh Wonder of the Ancient World, the Pharos Lighthouse of Alexandria. Erected around 270 B.C. and covered in marble that lighthouse is believed to have been somewhere between 450 to 600 feet tall. It stood for 1500 years until an earthquake brought it down.

Today many historic lighthouses are still used as navigational aids as a failsafe to high-tech navigational devices, including the country's first lighthouse, Boston Lighthouse on Little Brewster Island in Boston Harbor. Most of our lighthouses now are automated and managed by the U.S. Coastguard.

So I looked forward to seeing a plethora of lighthouses as I started my recent journey from Boston to Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard and Cape Cod. I thought, I've seen lighthouses all along the Florida coast, in the Keys, Great Lakes, Bermuda, the Caribbean, and even several on the Red Sea. But New England is the classic home of the lighthouse. Now I'll really see some lighthouses.

First I came across the tiny white-painted cedar shake Brant Point Lighthouse on Nantucket. To be honest, it looked cute but a bit dinky on its lonely beach as I approached the island on the high-speed ferry. Almost if it had been built by Disney. I thought of the towering 175-foot red brick Ponce Inlet Lighthouse near Daytona Beach, Fla., the first lighthouse I ever visited, and the second tallest in the the nation. I wondered if all lighthouses in this strange land of New England were small and quaint.

Fog rolled in that afternoon, and as I walked toward the 26-foot lighthouse feeling like Jessica Fletcher in Cabot Cove a la "Murder She Wrote," I saw the Brant Point Light flashing through the mist. This was no toy lighthouse, but a true navigational aid, I realized. I felt greater respect.

The next day, which was gloriously sunny, I returned to get a closer look and passed a friendly U.S. Coast Guard member polishing his station's brass bell. As I approached the lighthouse on the beach I was impressed by its stalwart character. I got the sense it perfectly suits its position guarding the charming town of Nantucket on the island of the same name.

A couple from Connecticut were also admiring the lighthouse. They assured me that each lighthouse in New England is delightfully different and worth visiting. Later I learned this Brant Point Light is on the site of the second lighthouse ever built in the United States. The first Brant Point Light was erected in 1746 and many other replacements were built after violent storms. The current sturdy version was constructed in 1901.

After the short flight to Martha's Vineyard, I visited the lighthouse on the dramatic clay cliffs of Gay Head. Now this grassy high point is a wonderfully romantic location for a lighthouse. The 51-foot red brick tower, built in 1856 as a replacement for the original Gay Head Light, reminded me a bit of Ponce Inlet. Although its flashing red light seems a little ominous, if I return I will bring a a picnic lunch and a blanket as I could easily spend hours there.

I also was fortunate while on the Vineyard to visit the Edgartown Harbor Light, which stands on a beach marking the entrance into Edgartown Harbor and Katama Bay. This white lighthouse with black trim has a classic shape.

The next stop on my journey was Chatham on Cape Cod, and there I was to come across several lighthouses. On the way out to Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge via Rip Ryder Monomoy Island Ferry, my group saw the charming Stage Harbor Lighthouse, which is now a residence. Not a one of us on the boat didn't wonder what it was like to live in a lighthouse station on the beach.

After we saw the amazing herds of grey seals on Monomoy Island, we caught sight of the brick tip of the Monomoy Light. The Monomoy Island Ferry gives tours of the lighthouse and the island in the summer, so if I ever get back that way ... Later I visited the Chatham Light high above a public beach, another classic lighthouse. In this part of the country, I was learning, you really don't have to go far out of your way to find a lighthouse.

On the way up to Provinceton, curiousity got the better of me and I pulled off the main road to check out the Cape Cod Light, also known as the Highland Light. One of the things that makes this lighthouse unusual is that there's a golf course surrounding it. Nice for golfers to play on the rolling hills with the majestic Atlantic Ocean such a deep blue beyond the high clay cliffs. So different from the days when many deaths along the treacherous coast necessitated the building of the lighthouse.

In Provincetown on my whale watching tour I caught sight of the squarish Wood End Light, now run by solar power. It's not too far from the classic round Race Point Light. There in Provincetown I also made up for not being able to climb any of the lighthouses I saw on my trip by trudging up the stairs of the 252-foot Pilgrim Monument. Like the Statue of Liberty, it easily could be used as a navigational beacon if need be.

After seeing so many Cape Cod and island lighthouses, I am even more interested in lighthouses than before. There is something reassuring about the solitary towers still standing through the generations. They make the seascapes more beautiful by their very being.

Returning to my first beach: Panama City Beach, Florida

Hard to believe I hadn't visited Panama City Beach in more than 20 years. After all, it was my first beach, my first encounter with the miracle of shore and sea oats and the wonder of waves. So when I returned to those sugar white sands this past week, I had some catching up to do with my memories.
 
It was here I ran after sand pipers and seagulls while my mother floated on her back rising up and down with the gentle waves. It was here my sister and I collected shells and pieces of sand dollars and coral. It was here my dad scooped up sand in his hands and tossed it, setting the sand crabs scuttling across the beach to burrow in again.

Here I have always felt the magnificence of life and awe of the Creator. The simple harmony of sky over sea and sand on a sunny day. All seems possible.

After I graduated from college and worked at The Dothan Eagle, I again visited Panama City Beach, but this time with boyfriends. One of them became my husband (and then former husband). I'll never forget the day he and I first walked on the beach together. Both of us felt a sense of destiny.

So when I returned to Panama City Beach and first saw the color of the water, crystal clear bottle green spilling over the sand then bands of teal leading to deep blue and the horizon, I knew I had come home. As I walked and savored the incredible beauty I felt that I had really never seen this beach before. I was seeing it with new eyes.

How much more does the beach mean to me now that I have seen many, many other beaches, lived a lot more life and spent much time away from my family. And how much more it will mean to me in another 20 years. As T.S. Elliott said "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

Getting the bounce back in my step in Bermuda

Just was talking to Dr. Lana Staheli, PhD, a Seattle-based life strategies coach, for a story I'm doing on life coaching for a health magazine. I met her several weeks ago at Cambridge Beaches Resort in Bermuda.

Our interview reminded me how much has changed in my life because of my "life balance" retreat with her at the secluded, luxurious oceanfront resort. One of the biggest new developments is my launching this Coastal Voyager website to share my journeys in a personal way on an ongoing basis. I'm also planning to hit the road intensely beginning in August for a tour of the coastal U.S. and Canada with the goal of gathering material for my first book. I'll still be visiting the Caribbean and other coastal international destinations as well. You can follow my travels here.

Before my visit to Bermuda I was floundering a bit wondering about what new strategies I needed to employ in the down economy to kick-start my freelance business. Like other journalists and freelancers I know, my pocketbook has been hit hard by the recession. It's become ever more difficult to maintain an apartment, and frustrating to make those monthly payments because I'm often on the road on travel assignments anyway.

Talking with Dr. Staheli on the beach in Bermuda, looking at where I was and where I wanted to be, I got a whole new perspective on my life. My biggest lesson was that in my obsession with trying to make more money I wasn't taking the time to refresh and replenish myself with activities like walking and getting together with friends. Because I have gained some weight in the last few years, only allowing myself two or three days a week to exercise was keeping me from taking the weight off.

Dr. Staheli helped me see that all that work, work, work was counterproductive and to come up with an action plan, which I started putting into play at Cambridge Beaches. Walking more when I came home to Orlando ended up being the key that unlocked the idea of Coastal Voyager in my mind and gave me the inspiration for my new mission. And walking more is helping me take off the weight slowly but surely.

Her coaching turned around my idea of being forced to put all my stuff in storage to wanting to pare down to my most essential possessions and storing them while I travel. I'll be staying with family and friends between my trips.

When I talked to my About.com editor about the idea, she loved it, and mentioned that I was becoming unstuck. "What do you mean?" I asked. She had just read the National Geographic Traveler magazine ombudsman Christopher Elliot's April 13 MSNBC travel column on "What's the secret to an endless vacation? Nine tips for becoming a 'new' nomad" In it he talks about people who are responding to this crazy economy by traveling full time. He's even planning his own extended trip with his family next year!

Dr. Staheli believes this economy is helping nudge many of her clients to reinvent themselves. Changing ourselves periodically is energizing and enriching whether it comes from either an internal impetus like a desire to do something different or an external one, like the economy. Her book Bounce Be Transformed, which is available to be ordered or for free download on her site, will tell you how you can reinvent yourself for the better. She'll be back at Cambridge Beaches to lead another weekend retreat next March.

As for my journey, more to come!

Snorkeling off the beach in Curacao: Making my way back

My first visit to Lodge Kura Hulanda in Curacao two years ago was brief, so I didn't snorkel off the beach. I lusted to see what was under the surface of those brilliant turquoise waters, and I felt in my heart I had to come back. The desire to snorkel there beckoned to me almost like a siren's song.

To tell the truth I could have plunged in the first time, but I had just been on boat excursion, and I was exhausted, and the reef line looked pretty far out, at least a football field. I would have had to swim out there by myself. So I just promised myself I'd be back another time.

Here I was again at the Lodge Kura Hulanda and it was a perfect day, and the water was even more beautiful and calm than I remembered. I got fins from the dive shop and headed to the beach with my snorkel and mask. A girl in my group said she was coming as well, and told me she was an avid diver and a former life guard. Great, a good dive buddy. "You should always snorkel with a buddy," my inner parent cooed with approval.

I started to see bait fish early on as I swam through the shallow waters heading deeper, and then there were some reef patches with some nice parrot fish, damsel fish and sargeant majors. But I wanted to see what was out farther, so I kept swimming as did my bud. A few more patches and the water turned a deep crystal-clear blue as it dropped off fairly precipitously.

Big schools of fish swam close to the surface and beneath them was reef for as far as the eye could see. The visability was at least 150 feet, and I was entranced by the abundance of coral and fish down below. Hmmm, it's probably this good or better in Bonaire, Curacao's sister island, I thought. No wonder divers are gaga about Bonaire. Suddenly I saw a flickering school of fish swimming in a circular swarm below. Swirling and swirling in a lovely vortex.

I made myself to remember periodically to check to see where my buddy was because we were exploring according to our own inclinations. As I was became ever more entranced she popped up near me and said she was going in. Not enough excitement for her, I thought.

But I was getting a bit drunk on the beauty of it all, and after she left, I got the notion to explore farther along the deep reefline paralleling the beach. It's easy to be seduced into following fish and going from one spectacle to the next, especially when you're not with a buddy. I wasn't concerned. I could see the beach, and some divers had surfaced not too, too far away.

But then I came up and noticed I was drifting far to the left of the beach and was in front of the Indian cliffs. In fact I noticed a strong current pulling me farther out. I better head back, I thought. I tried to swim directly back parallel to the beach but the current was so strong that I couldn't make much progress. I even tried swimming toward the cliffs, but that was difficult as well. When I floated, the current took me yet farther out toward the left and toward the deep sea. No one was anywhere near.

Oh no, I thought. This isn't very smart. How did I get in this situation? The Caribbean waters had looked so flat, so deceptively calm. Then it occurred to me: It's possible that the current may pull me so far out into the sea that I will eventually tire of keeping myself afloat and drown. I felt highly alert and a bit numb.

The more I thought about the negative possibilities, the more my heart began to race. "This is no time to panic," I directed myself, squelching a momentary urge to freak out. "That would be the worst thing you could do." Let me think about what I have heard about undertows, about not fighting them, about going along the path of least resistence.

What if I swim through the current at an angle? Not the easiest thing to do, but I did make some progress. Okay, I thought. I've got to focus. I've got to bear down and kick and stroke steadily. So that's what I did. And I pushed and pushed myself, not stopping because I knew I'd lose my progress. And before long I could see the sand was not too, too far beneath me. And I knew I'd soon be able to stand. And then I spied a large mound of dead coral, like a chunk of rock, and swam toward it, and stood on it and breathed heavily until I caught my breath.

What a relief! After I rested I swam back to some reef patches I'd seen near the shore. I spent a good 20 minutes more floating around the patches following the movements of squirrel fish, hog fish and other brightly colored fish. After the high anxiety of a few moments before, watching the marine creatures was powerfully calming.

Snorkeling has always been my sanctuary. The graceful movements of marine life, the dance of light in the water, the feeling of being buoyed up in the water hypnotises. When I'm snorkeling I feel I am flying along the edge of the sky and the sea. I am so very close to God.

Life has it's close calls, and every one of them is a lesson. I'm grateful I made my way back to Curacao to snorkel, and even more grateful I made my way back from snorkeling.