“No sunset tonight!”

This is the immediate comment I get from a senior citizen who is packing up as I make my way onto the sand and towards the shoreline. It is 8pm and she recognizes that this is the only reason why a person dressed in non-beach clothes might be showing up at the shoreline. I look at her and don’t hesitate. 

“It’s still worth it,” I reply, while looking out towards the far lighthouse. The one that my brother once went out to check out with his friends on a fishing trip. It’s a bit hard to see in the haze but I know where to look.

“What?” she says, and I realize that I probably said it too low and quick. But then I am redeemed.

“Yes, it is,” says her friend, standing right next to her. All of us, even those who note the non-event, still see value in the occasion. 

It’s my final night in Falmouth and the sky above the horizon— that is, everything north of Buzzards Bay—is airbrushed nearly opaque.  Indeed, the setting of the sun today will be completely obscured for all who come to the beach to take part in the event. Cameras ready. And I am just another of those bodies. But it’s not matter that nothing tonight is picture-perfect; I say this because it’s more the act of getting out and coming down here that I find meaningful.

 Rituals, much like this one is, have an important place in our lives. You don’t need to live near a beach or anywhere special—it’s just a matter of having your one personal thing.  A recurring act that honors an anonymous moment in time and thus allows you to bear witness in a way that leaves the rest of your daily minutes largely unremarkable. 

“You guys mind if I just lean here against the fence?” Dad came with us but he’s not game for walking onto the sand—even if the town has now installed a sort of nylon carpet that helps the mobility impaired gain access to the beach.  I hadn’t been paying a ton of attention until now, but my father’s reluctance to move is probably not so much related to his 86-year-old body. Rather, it’s likely due to the fact that he probably ate one-quarter of one of his “atomic cookies” and would rather remain on terra very firma. It sounds fine to us.

The three of us pause for a photo point where the parking lot meets the beach. Dad leans on the sign that explains the beach violations to visitors. I’m happy even here for the opportunity, as I know that Dad (and all of us) have a finite number of trips to Chappy left in the tank. And he could have told us to piss off and stay at home when sunset rolled around. I respect that this would be his prerogative. But I also appreciate how he knows that this means a lot to us and he indeed obliges when we ask him to take a ride to Chapoquoit Beach. He goes, I believe, because he knows that this is one of our most important rituals. We’ve been doing it for decades and it is destined to continue—even when all of us are long gone. 

And I won’t lie—on many nights the sunsets here are spectacular. There is little I find more beautiful than the sun making close contact with the sea. To that point, sometimes I wonder if I joined the Navy just so I could get more nights like these ones. The sun dipping into the sea has something therapeutic about it—maybe it’s because you are presented with a sort of figurative performance of a red-hot thing being dipped and then swallowed whole into a massive water body. In watching this I think about our own overheated human bodies that spend all day running around like mad people—how nice the thought can be to suddenly be cooled and overtaken in an instant into stillness.  

So there was no sunset tonight on my last chance to witness a palette of colors displayed against the sky. It really doesn’t matter. There is still so much meditative about coming down here. Watching the activity. Bumping gently with the humans around you who all also get it. Knowing that the sun will go down but also that it will also come up again—accompanied by the promise of an equally beautiful rise as it climbs into the sky and the crimson tinges dry into a more raw and bland midday. 

I also think about those sunrises. One that remains permanently burnt into my mind is a dawn that happened a few years back while pulling into a Spanish port, on board a Spanish Navy ship. I was on the flight deck and admiring the deep reds that were developing in the sky. By the time we were pierside, I stayed and watched as the brow was lifted up by a crane and connected us to shore. The only thing that you could really pick up was the black silhouette of the equipment against the morning sky. In the morning you don’t always get such a display, but on these days, it really serves to electrify your soul. Not only prepare you for the day, but put you in a sort of state that feels in rhythm with the rest of the global hum. 

There’s a lot to be said for both sunset and sunrise. And even then, just as much to be said for the ones that knock your socks off as for the ones that pass largely unobserved. Of course, when the colors are remarkable then they are well worth the trip—but even the simple act of attending to these moments no matter what they look like are well worth the trip.  If only to provide your brain, your loved ones, your sense of place—an appropriate pause. Rituals like this are important. The rest of the day, Lord knows we’ve got plenty of noise that will be encountered. Counterbalancing with moments like this really do make all the difference.