Charlotte and I have been within a stones throw of the Gulf of Mexico’s beaches for about two weeks. The beach is made up of fine white sand and at places, is almost a block wide.
Our first abode – a condo east of downtown Galveston – was quieter in terms of people but not in terms of grinders and high pressure washers detailing the building for the spring and summer.
The beach is wide; the water is shallow. Waves break far off shore. The constant breaking waves create a background growl, which upon nearing the surf line morphs into a metronome like regularity.
Our second abode – a house on stilts in Surfside Beach – has a different character. Though we are the third house off the beach, the views out the front and back are uninterrupted. This beach is half the width as the previous one. This beach allows cars and golf carts and mini bikes to drive one way east. I even had to avoid horse poop while taking my daily walk.
This beach’s surf is loud. The waves have a shorter period and are relentless. The sound oscillates, more like a narrow peak to trough sine wave. I keep reminding myself that I do not have tinnitus, but surly this is what it must sound like. The wind has increased and decreased. It has varied from northwest to southeast with no noticeable change in the waves direction or the steadfastness of the sound.
A common held belief that the ocean’s sounds are relaxing, even meditative, is being put to the test. Granted the ocean’s sound are more tolerable than the 737’s, 747’s, and MD-11’s, that buzz over our Chicago bungalow every 60 seconds. Could I live in such close proximity to these waves, I think not.
I am probably being premature in my assessment of livability. Is fourteen days long enough to make a judgment, again, I think not. But then this is Texas in February. Once spring draws to a close the noise will be the least of concerns as the constant air conditioning will no doubt mask the sound of the gulf’s waves.
In this small coastal community, the stilted dwellings are spaced sporadically. It is a matter of failed developments and horrendous hurricanes. The homes are easily dated. Each new build is higher than the last. The loftiest are 15 to 20 feet off the sandy ground. The thought of that much water flowing under a house gives me pause. This area of Texas appears as flat as Holland, so to escape the rising water would entail a long inland drive.
The wind was gusting to 45 mph from the north when we arrived. Opening and closing the outside doors became onerous on the north end and spirited on the south. We toasted our arrival dinner with the clink of tall wine goblets. Once placed back on the table the wine sloshed back and forth as the lofty three bedroom home swayed with each gust. It is sobering to think of what 150 mph of wind would do to the wine.
A shore side life, seemingly idyllic, presents challenges that I am not sure I am up for . . . so back to Chicago it is!
