Silence on the Beach

The tranquillity experienced at dawn often surpasses my comprehension. It can embody a sense of rejuvenation and a belief that nothing is impossible, that everything is possible.

I want to say that I could drag myself from the warm comfort of my bed every day to enjoy the marvel of sunrise - but you wouldn’t believe me, and yes, you’re right, I would be lying. But what is true is that I was there that day, and so was she.

There is a connection between us Sunrisers - just because that’s what we are. We share something, something unspoken – the appreciation for things quiet and majestic, like that deafening silence of a golden sphere of light appearing on the horizon. That is possibly - or more likely probably - why I was immediately drawn to her. I know that it wasn’t just because of the earliness of the morning. Sylvia would have attracted me no matter what the time of day.

The first time I met her, I was just sitting there, at my favourite secret spot, overlooking the cliffs at Collieston.

Old Slains Castle (not that modern Dracula building about five miles round the coast at Cruden Bay) is a hidden gem. There’s not much to it now – barely a single corner of the original structure remains, thanks to James VI and his war against the Catholic Rebellion. But therein lies its beauty - its ruined walls standing on the edge of the cliffs, Mother Nature doing her damnedest to erode the final vestiges of Man.

But being built of her own rock, She struggles to wipe the slate clean. Surrounded by rolling grassy hillocks that creep down to the sea and somehow cling to the cliff edges, vast sheets of black rock edge outwards to the North Sea. No footpath guides the traveller to the shoreline, which makes the difficult journey all the more worthwhile as small sandy coves provide secret beaches.

So, before that day, if I had my selfish way, no one would ever sit and admire this beauty other than me.

This coast, a destination point for birdwatchers and sightseers, is Nature at its most spectacular. Finding such beauty in the rugged coastline is difficult, even if you’re looking for it. Once discovered, however, even the most unselfish of outdoor nature lovers would resolve to keep this secret to themselves. In an age where, sadly and too often, free time is wasted in front of a flat screen, the sea is a reminder of the reasons for taking vacations, and a sunrise over the ocean from a beach is one of God’s definitions of a ‘must-see’.

I remember that day distinctly because my well-thumbed Whitaker’s Almanack said that sunrise for that early summer morning and, therefore, my mission to catch the sun materialising over the horizon, would be just before 6:00 a.m. No one in their right mind would be up early enough, nor hardy enough, to make the journey to my secret spot. No one, that is, except me - and Sylvia.

“Is this seat taken?”

Few people can remember the first words spoken by, or to, the love of their life, but I can - absolutely, I can.

As I turned to identify the source of the unexpected voice, the first light of dawn revealed the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Not all men might have thought so, I suppose. She wore no makeup, a pair of faded jeans, and a rather nondescript woollen pullover. Her hair, somewhere between auburn and chestnut, still had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look, as if the alarm clock, set for an important meeting, had been missed. It was clear that she had made no effort to look beautiful, and yet… and yet… she had that inner spark which couldn’t be hidden.

Something changed that first moment I saw her – me! I changed. I had spent years safeguarding this, my secret spot, and now, unexpectedly, surprisingly, wonderfully, I wanted nothing more than to share this, my sunrise, with her.

Unfortunately, there is no inbred poet in me, so the most unromantic response to her inquiry was simply: “It’s a free country.” And, with that, she invaded my secret spots – firstly, the beach, but more importantly, my heart.

The silence that followed was both loud and revealing. Sylvia wasn’t there for small talk; like me, she was there to capture the beauty of Nature’s sunrise. We sat in silence, watching the sun peek over the horizon, slowly covering the two of us in its warming light. We conversed in silence. I imagined her words and stifled my own. She told me, or so I believed, hoped, prayed that she understood the importance of that moment, and I replied silently in my head that it was made all the more special because she was there to share it.

As the sun slowly revealed itself in its completeness, so many thoughts ran through my mind. Then, just as quickly and quietly as she had come, Sylvia rose to her feet, wiped some sand from the seat of her jeans, and headed back up the cliffside and out of my sight, out of my dream and out of my life.

Eight words had been spoken, yet an infinite number of potential events had been contemplated. Thirty minutes had passed, yet a lifetime had been imagined. I was so sure that I would never see her again, and the thought made me overwhelmingly despondent.

The next five years came and went, five long years since that day on the beach. Yes, there were first dates, first kisses, and, I dare say, the words ‘I love you’ exchanged. Yet every time, the hand of fate or simple, cruel intent would reach down and disrupt any such promise.

There always seemed to be a good reason or some lame excuse for ending these potential relationships, but at its core was a shared sunrise and a conversation that didn’t happen.

I returned to ‘our’ spot occasionally to see the sunrise, not for Sylvia - at least, that’s what I told myself. I had given up without realising that I was hoping, wanting to see her again, yearning to feel what I felt that day, longing that she would be there.

And then it happened! It was another summer; it was sunrise, but this time she was there.

“Is this seat taken?” It was my turn to ask.

“It’s a free country.” She remembered.

Those same eight words.

Seeing her once more, I realised that I couldn’t afford to let this chance slip through my fingers again, not for a second time.

When the sun had completed its part in our play, Sylvia rose to her feet and wiped the sand from her jeans, precisely as she had done five years earlier. This time, however, I stood up as well.

“I’m John. I don’t like coffee very much, but I’d really like to buy you one.”

She giggled. I couldn’t blame her – what a stupid come-on line.

“I’m Sylvia,” she responded, quite matter-of-factly, “and I’d love a coffee.”

It’s strange the things which confirm that a love is real. I couldn’t tell her that day for fear of losing her, but at that moment, I was sure. I know that I had said “I love you” to others before, but it was evident to me now that I had lied. For in that moment, I now knew what love felt like.

Lives are only lives when viewed in reverse. A shared coffee became a dinner date, a dinner date became a commitment, a commitment became a proposal, and a proposal became forever and ever. There were children and pets and holidays, but more than anything, there were trips to Collieston and Slains Castle. Always at sunrise. Always just the two of us. Always in silence.

You never know the last time is the last time until it’s too late. The final trip we took to Collieston was like all the others. It took a little longer for tired, old bones to make the effort, but we found our spot; we sat together; we talked without words. The sun rose as perfectly as always, impervious to time, but Sylvia rose only with my help.

“Coffee?”

She knew I wouldn’t – couldn’t - resist. She knew that sitting next to her, pretending to like coffee, was my greatest pleasure. She also knew, deep down, that she would never return to see another sunrise, and I lacked the willingness to acknowledge it to myself.

That day in the café, we told stories of family and friends, both living and lost, as we sipped on what had eventually become my favourite drink. We drew up a mental Trial Balance scorecard of our life and realised we had made a profit.

Two days later, I lost her. Just like that first day at the beach, I watched her as she left me alone, this time without even the hope of returning.

“I’ll save a seat for you.” Those were her last words to me. I heard myself saying, “It’s a free country.” Then, she was gone.

One day - soon, I hope - I will watch the sunrise with my Sylvia again, only from a far better secret place. Until then, I only go to our special spot at night. I’m never alone when I go there. I go to our beach and sit down just as I did all those years ago. As the moonlight dances on the waves, I feel her presence, comforting me as we hold our silent conversation.