The Walk

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The beach swept along in a long curve towards the point.  The highest tide mark was anchored by grass tussocks and mounds of pigface, the light sensitive flowers now closed for the day.  Out on the point the tall, white lighthouse was not quite ready to begin sending out its nightly coded warning of sand shoals under a deceptive sea.

They’d dowsed themselves in spray-on insect repellent so they could enjoy this walk along the water’s edge in the golden last rays of the day, footwear in hand so their toes could squelch in the sand and their feet could be rinsed by the lapping wavelets of the rising evening tide.

“We won’t be able to do this again for a while,” she said regretfully, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand.

“Not together, anyway,” he agreed.  “We’ll have a lot of adjustments to make before we can come out here like this again.”

“It’s not just this,” she went on, “our whole lives are about to change, for ever.  Are we ready?”

“It’s not like we have a choice any more,” he said, “we can’t turn back now.  We’ll adjust.  I’m sure we’ll get in a few beach walks when we’ve gotten used to things, before the end of autumn.”

“I think,” she took her hand back and rubbed her protuberant belly, “that I can make it to the lighthouse fence before we have to head back home for the car.  Our little beach baby is definitely coming tonight.”