There’s one bike rider among the usual, and shrinking, band of morning beach walkers.  A friendly chap, he always says good morning, and he scared the bejesus out of me this morning with his greeting as he approached from behind, because I didn’t hear him coming.  He can’t beach ride every morning, of course, because you can only negotiate a bike, even with fat tires, through our sand at or near low tide, which we’ve had through the weekend and into the first of this week.  But Ive been seeing him for years, another of the crew of regulars whose name or story I do not know.  For a long time he pedaled alongside a woman, his wife, I am assuming, who was a runner.  Then, five years ago or more he was riding by himself and we haven’t seen her since.  Opens the door to many possibilities, but we just don’t know.  One of the many mysteries I prefer to keep as mysteries about the lives of these beach folk.  It’s the story-teller in me.

One noticeable characteristic of this guy, however, is that he always presents with the scent of sunblock, classic Coppertone, to be specific.  It is unmistakable; there’s no other scent like it, and that’s what this is about.  When he passes and I get a whiff, I’m transported through a portal to a carefree, happy time.  Smells are evocative and provocative, you know, and are deeply associated with memories.  For me this scent evokes memories of my youth with friends on the Gulf coast, St. Theresa, Alligator Point, Panama City, a wonderful time with everything still out ahead of us.  Patchouli is another scent that brings a rush of good memories, but of a different time, place, and circumstances.  And oddly, even diesel fumes evoke the streets of wonderful cities we’ve enjoyed.

***

I wrote some time back about the submarine look-out tower on the beach, and the guy who lived in the sheltered space beneath the deck below it.  I saw him this morning, sitting on the steps of a dune walkover a half-mile further south, his bike leaning on the railing beside him.  I thought it a bit odd he was there and not in his usual place.  On the way back home I saw why.  I hadn’t seen it on my passing of the look-out in the pre-sun light, but there it was.  There were new steps rising from the beach, and the under space was now sheathed all around in new wood.  No access now.

Time to move on.  And so it goes.