Free Beachcombing at Miramar by Richard Bode Page A

morality play.
Beauty
is the antonym of
violence
, the antidote for all the pent-up rage in the world. We have this choice—we can opt for beauty or we can opt for violence.
     If we choose violence, then death and destruction will be our reward. If we choose beauty, we will create a bower of quiet
     for our children, and for ourselves a sleep full of sweet dreams.
    The sun is directly over the radar station, glinting off the steel; I can feel the warmth of it on my face and arms. I rise
     to my feet, pulling the peak of my cap farther down my forehead to shade my eyes. As I do, I notice for the first time that
     the beach about me is littered with beer cans. I count them—there are more than thirty strewn about, lying every which way,
     some exposed, others partially buried in the sand.
    I remember a few years ago hiking with a geologist friend, Lex Blood, five miles up the Grinnell Trail in Glacier National
     Park. Below us spread a pale blue lake, a glacial tarn; above us rose “the Garden Wall,” the Continental Divide. About halfway
     up, Lex saw a white object stuffed in a rocky crevice. He poked it loose with a stick and stuffed it in a pocket inside his
     backpack.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “A snot rag!” he snapped.
    The rugged mountains all around us were a place of awe, a veritable storehouse of information about the history of our world.
     But to one hiker on the rugged trail, they were no more than a handy depository for a piece of tissue paper on which he had
     blown his nose. I can still hear the moral indignation in Lex’s voice; I can still see the outrage in his eyes.
    I know exactly how he felt, because I feel that way now. I am infuriated by these empty cans, disillusioned by the abuse,
     the flagrant insensitivity to the beauty of the land. And yet, despite the evidence all about me, I can’t let go of my conviction
     that the quest for beauty is as inherent in the individuals who littered this beach as it is in me, as it is in every woman,
     every man.
    Why do they do it? Why do they carry their beer cans to this lovely, isolated beach when they could just as easily sit on
     a city curb or beside a garbage dump? I believe they do it because they have no choice. They are drawn to the beauty of this
     place; this is where they have to be.
    But when their party is over, it’s as if some imp of the perverse takes over—as if they have to prove to others, to their
     friends, their peers, that they are immune to the force of nature that lured them here. To behave otherwise would be a tacit
     admission that they feel a connection to the land, an attachment to sea and sand, a bond with what they perceive as sacred
     in the world.
    A genuine expression of reverence seems to be something they can’t afford. I see the results of their repression in the litter
     they leave behind. These empty cans scattered about my feet speak to me with a power that transcends words. They tell me that
     those who made this mess are in rebellion against themselves.
    I live in a time and place that puts a premium on hardheadedness. I know a man who constantly ridicules his wife’s desire
     to go down to the beach at dusk and watch the sunset. “Women love sunsets,” he says derisively. He wants to be seen as a practical
     fellow, a pragmatic man of business. And perhaps he is. But I can’t help thinking that this pragmatic man he purports to be
     is merely an identity he has chosen for himself, a protective coating that comes between him and how he feels, truly feels,
     in those rare moments when he lets himself.
    I can see little difference between those who say they are indifferent to sunsets and those who travel to the beach and litter
     it with empty cans. Both are attracted to beauty; both are afraid of what others will think if they admit that it is so. Both
     have a vested interest in appearing cool and tough. In their view, it is the cool and tough who inherit the world.
    But that strikes me as a destructive