On the Beach

I spent several days with the Bouws at the Little House.  Every morning Kees left on his bicycle to go to work in Rotterdam, and Riet and I went shopping.  Since the Little House had no refrigerator, she shopped for food every day. 

London had been extremely hot that summer, but at the beach in The Netherlands the air was crisp and cool.  I wore a sweater as we walked along the street past similar tiny cottages, where elderly Dutchmen called out “Da” (Good Day).  That was one Dutch word that I could pronounce, so I returned their greetings.. 

Riet explained in broken English, with gestures, that all the people who came to this little “resort” were old, as young people preferred to vacation in warmer climates.  Every year Margaret and her family rented a “caravan” and went camping on a beach in Spain.

In one of the little shops Riet and I bought needlework kits to make pictures of birds.  On rainy afternoons we stayed inside the Little House, talking little as we worked tiny cross stitches into the linen, she with red thread, me with blue.  I still have my blue bird in its little oval frame on the wall beside the mirror in my bathroom in Garland, Texas, a daily reminder of those pleasant afternoons.

After supper on my final evening, Riet and I climbed through the dunes behind the Little House.  We emerged on a wide, sandy beach facing the cold, gray North Sea.   Riet and I sat on the sand.  The air was cool, but I was comfortable in a light sweater.  I took off my shoes and wiggled my toes in the sand.  That too was cool. 

I looked out at the sea.  In the gray light of evening, the water was calm, low waves lapping a slow rhythm against the shore. 

Riet pointed to a ship moving slowly across the horizon.  She said, “The ferry to England.”  In the quiet of that calm evening, it seemed strange that less than a mile away was one of the busiest ports in Europe.

The first time I came to Rotterdam, Riet was shy about trying to speak English.  She asked Margaret to translate for her.  I tried to learn a few Dutch phrases but never got my throat and tongue around any word except “Da”.   By the time we sat in the sand, Riet had become comfortable with me, and we had a long, woman-to-woman talk.  I felt more at ease with this Dutch woman than with many of my talkative American friends.

She asked about Wally.  I told her I was devastated when I found it necessary to divorce him.  My children loved their father; I never told them how he hit and kicked me. 

She talked about her son, Tony.  The baby for whom Mother sent clothes had grown into an adult drug addict.  He married “a nice girl”, and Riet was sad when the young woman divorced her son.  Then he died of an overdose.







Somehow talking about our sorrows, with few words and broken English, was comforting to both of us.

As the light faded and the sea turned from gray to black, I thought: Not everyone can escape to a place where it is always hot and sunny.  We have to make the best of wherever we are.  If it rains, stay indoors and make a pretty picture.  When it clears, go to the beach.  The sand may be cold on the feet, but it is still fun to wiggle your toes in it.