“It’s no-leash time on the beach!” the woman shouted, clearly irritated that her dog had been perceived as misbehaving.
Heather felt her insides tighten as her fists clenched at her sides. Her mouth worked but no words would come out. She wanted to tell this woman that it wasn’t the leash that was a problem; it was the fact that her dog was chasing the birds to begin with. It wasn’t cute when a dog—or a child—scattered a flock of birds on the beach. One seemingly fun moment could spell disaster for shorebird families. Especially the migrating birds; forcing them to fly or run caused them to use up valuable energy for their journey. But Heather couldn’t explain any of this to the woman, her breath still evading her. She could only clutch her sketchbook to her chest and point to the birds squawking and circling in the sky, hoping she would understand.
“What?” the woman demanded.
Heather wanted to run away. Even a year ago, she probably would have. But she’d come so far to run away now. She gathered her courage and finally squeaked out, “Your dog is chasing the birds!”
The woman looked at the birds, and then turned back. “So what? That’s what dogs do!”
Heather felt as she had in high school when classmates had taunted her and she couldn’t say a word back. She just stood there, offering no resistance, wishing she could just disappear, hoping she wouldn’t throw up.
The woman walked closer and started thrusting her finger at her as she made her point. “It’s people like you who ruin vacations. Busybody! I paid three thousand dollars for a week here and I’m following the rules.”
Heather was trembling, but she felt the need to stand up for herself. This woman didn’t understand. She had to explain, not just for herself but for the birds.
“The birds . . . they’re feeding.”
The woman glared at her. “And?”
Heather took a deep breath. It was very difficult to form words. “It’s not good for them to chase them.”
“Godiva is just playing. She does this every morning. It’s none of your business.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you around here before—where do you live? Are you even supposed to be on this beach? What’s your name?”
Heather just stared at her mutely.
After another few moments, the woman scowled once more, then waved her hand in rude dismissal and turned her back, shutting down any further discussion. But to Heather’s relief, she at last called the dog to her side. Thankfully, the Labrador obediently returned. She watched the insufferable woman jog off, her dog trotting faithfully at her side.
Heather was so shaken by the confrontation she felt light-headed, a sure sign a panic attack was about to happen. She couldn’t prevent it, but she could try to manage it. She stared out at the calm ocean and took deep breaths. “Take it easy,” she told herself. “You aren’t in any real danger. It’s just symptoms of panic.”
She clenched her fists and sat down on the sand, willing herself to pay attention. “I accept that I’m feeling afraid at this moment. But it’s only a feeling. I accept it won’t kill me. This feeling is the worst that will happen. I just need to ride it out.”
Heather remained in the same spot and continued talking to herself in a calm, placating voice. It was like counting to ten when she was mad. More and more of the shorebirds returned to cluster along the gulley and at the lapping shoreline. The waves rolled in and out in a regular pattern, and Heather matched her breathing to their ebb and flow. Gradually she felt her body relax and the panic attack subside.
Then it was gone. Heather felt drained but oddly triumphant. This was her first panic attack in a long while, and she’d used her tools to get through it. Still, what a loser she was. She still stood there like a mute, unable to respond. Her pencils and notebook lay scattered on the sand. She went to fetch them and stuffed everything into her backpack. She just wanted to go back to the beach house.
As she reached for her things, she spotted a small stone in the sand. It was a small oval pebble with a streak of black running across it—but there was a thumb-size indentation in the middle. Heather picked up the stone and held it in her hand. She lay the stone against her fingers and let her thumb slide back and forth in the depression. The movement was oddly comforting. She’d heard of similar stones used for self-soothing exercises—a worry stone, they were called. They had origins in many cultures but she’d never tried one. Rubbing her thumb across the stone did, indeed, give her comfort. Almost intuitive.
Heather put the stone in her pocket. She would bring out the worry stone when she felt anxious. It would serve to remind her that she had the strength within to overcome a panic attack, as she did today.
The sun was up and more people were walking the beach. She passed groups of women walking and talking at a fast clip. More dogs were running loose near their owners. Young men were setting out rented chairs and umbrellas. She’d been out longer than she’d planned. She could feel the heat of the sun through her clothes. Up ahead she spied a group of about fifteen people clustered near the dunes. Heather couldn’t deal with more people, especially not after that earlier confrontation. She lowered her gaze and headed closer to the shoreline.
Then she saw the tracks. At first she thought they were tire tracks, but they went all the way across the beach to the dunes where the group of people clustered. One of them was the woman in the pink jogging suit with her dog. Heather swallowed her groan of annoyance, but she was pleased at least to see that the naughty Labrador had her leash on. Then she noticed that three of the women in the group were wearing pale green turtle team T-shirts. She squinted, trying to spot Cara, but she wasn’t there. Curious, Heather drew closer.
One middle-aged woman with very short brown hair wearing a turtle team shirt stood in the center of what looked to Heather like a small crater in the sand. She guessed this was where the turtle had laid her eggs, as it was the center of focus. All the others gathered around to watch. The woman’s knees were bent as if she were doing the pliés that Heather had learned as a young girl in ballet school. In her hands was a long yellow probe stick. Time after time the woman carefully slid the metal probe into the sand. Each time Heather could sense the collective intake of breath from all the onlookers. She’d made at least a dozen holes in the sand when suddenly the metal stick slipped deeper. Immediately the woman dropped the probe and went to her hands and knees to begin digging. Everyone took a step closer, craning their necks to watch.
After several minutes of anxious waiting, the team member lifted her arm in triumph. In her hand was a single white egg, the size of a Ping-Pong ball.
“We’ve got eggs!” she called out.