march 15, 2025
SHORELine Artistry
daniel grau
Along the horizon between what will be and what was, two souls sat together and pondered existence. A Boy, his bowed head draped in the veil of a dark blue hood. A Man, tall enough that his face seemed to fade into a misty fog, his voice echoing from an unknown location far above.
On a beach older than them both, they sat together upon a dilapidated wooden bench at the crest of the tide. The shore was much like any other, with shorebirds and sand dollars and mole crabs and that familiar, briny scent of frothy waves that repeatedly came forth and drew back into the sea.
The Boy in the Dark Blue Hood rocked his legs back and forth. They didn’t quite reach the water that rhythmically swept beneath him. The weight of hundreds of memories relented, the shame in their failures and imperfections never to relinquish their grasp upon his mind. A sour sensation swelled behind his eyes, taunting him with a discomforting tension while denying the release.
But nothing came, and as the onslaught of thoughts continued, only magnifying the shame, guilt, and sorrow he experienced, the only escape he could find was by burying his face into his sleeves.
The Man with No Face laid a hand on the Boy’s back, making slow but meaningful circles. The Boy’s hood covered his head entirely.
“My child. You hold on to the past too closely. And you rely on its closure to bring you peace.”
As the tide retreated, the Man reached down and drew a shape in the sand with a long, thin branch.
“Think of the past like drawings etched into the beach just above the tide. The water will come forth and cover it all, and as the ocean’s foamy blanket subsides, the sand beneath it will be clear.”
As stated, the shape vanished beneath the ocean’s hand.
“A deeper hole may stay longer,” The Man began, reaching into the earth and excavating a handful of sand. He hurled it aside, leaving a large crater. A wave arrived, covered the hole, and left.
“It’s still there!” said the Boy.
“Sure it is. But look closely, the details have begun to diminish. With time, the hole will become shallow. With every passing wave the sand will gradually return to its natural shape.”
The two sat in silence, observing the water rise towards them just to fall moments later. And this repeated. The sea would cover the hole and pull away, each time leaving a crater slightly smaller.
Before long, the only remaining sign of there ever being a hole was a slight divot in its place.
“Of course, there may always seem to be a memory of its existence. But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep drawing—that you can’t keep making new creations.”
He drew more shapes, intersecting lines that twirled and flowed with keen attention to detail, each with a unique mixture of emotions painted into their design. A bouquet of flowers. A marble statue. Partners embracing. Partners fighting. An animal killing its prey. A leaf carried by a breeze. And with each new creation, given time, the tide would take them away. Some of them were beautiful. Some were not. It didn’t matter to the ocean. The water would gladly accept these gifts regardless.
“I want to draw something,” said the Boy in the Dark Blue Hood. The Man with No Face produced a second gnarled stick, which he handed to the Boy.
He pressed it against the wet sand, guiding it along a jagged path. The yield was nothing worth a museum, but it was the Boy’s first creation. The Man with No Face watched intently as abruptly, the waves invaded, preemptively taking their prize.
“Hey! I wasn’t finished!” exclaimed the Boy in the Dark Blue Hood.
They gazed at the dulled, unfinished series of lines amidst the sand, partly washed away already. The Man seemed to ponder in quiet understanding.
“Hmm. It seems you were drawing a guitar, no?” asked the Man. The Boy nodded. “But it is missing a couple strings. Maybe the owner lost them in a bet! Or perhaps, it is a magical guitar that only needs three strings.”
The Boy tapped his chin. “What if each string can produce every note possible, and so he is really playing three guitars!” exclaimed the Boy. The Man laughed.
“That is certainly possible!” A wave came, stealing a few details from the guitar before making its escape. “But in the end, it will fade regardless. Perhaps it mattered dearly in the moment. Yet it will soon be nothing but a pile of sand. The residue of your creation now a canvas for the next.”
The Boy’s heart weighed heavily as he witnessed the death of his unfinished drawing. He attempted to replicate the uniqueness of the past by producing new curves and lines that exactly traced the scars from the previous. This time, perhaps, he would not fail it. Yet the Boy found no resemblance in the structure, the only similarity being that it dissipated just as before when the seawater flooded its contours.
“I don’t want to draw anymore,” the Boy moped, throwing his stick upon the ground. “I liked my first one, and I can’t make anything better.”
“I often share that notion,” conceded the Man with No Face.
The Man drew a sandpiper that was so realistic the Boy thought it might emerge from the earth and run along the waves. But it didn’t, and its brief moment of beauty soon departed as it blurred beneath the familiar translucent surface. Beneath layers of steadfast equanimity, the Man’s disappointment unveiled itself as a heavy sigh.
“I liked that one.”
“So, what’s the point?” asked the Boy. “All of this drawing, creation, just to vanish right in front of us?” As he recalled his art fading into oblivion, his vision blurred as a familiar tension returned behind his eyes. The sand had returned to a blank slate, and he came to the realization that the process had completed, and his drawing had fully departed, never to return. A gentle cold trickled down his nose.
“Did you enjoy making it? Did you learn from its creation?” asked the Man with No Face. The Boy’s head tilted as he considered the query.
His thoughts diverted elsewhere, as they often tended to. Should he never have drawn at all? His chest felt hollow, as though the sand excavated and discarded from the earth was also ripped from his soul. He didn’t understand why the Man had suggested this at all.
Still the Man with No Face’s words remained unanswered, suspended between them as they awaited acknowledgment, beckoning the Boy to return from rumination. He recalled his enjoyment as he first produced the picture, despite its abrupt departure. His body mustered a weak nod.
“I don’t want to lose another like this,” the Boy lamented, eyeing the stick he had discarded. The Man patted the Boy’s shoulders in understanding.
“Such is the price we pay to learn.”
A comforting silence returned between them, introducing the sound of waves as though they had been waiting for the Boy and the Man’s attention. Rhythmically, the sound oscillated. Like a breath, the ocean inhaled, pulling the thin sheets of water back, and exhaled with a powerful roaring of waves crashing in the distance, their remnants reaching just beneath the Boy’s feet. Despite no drawings to take, the echoes of water continued. So long as there was sand upon the beach, the ocean would breathe. They sat in silence for a few moments, observing.
“I don’t think I have learned much. Something still feels bad,” the Boy eventually said. “Having to see it leave... that makes me sad. It makes me sad knowing that I could have made it better. I could have made it perfect, and I didn’t. I failed.”
The Boy in the Dark Blue Hood was expecting the Man to nod and agree, maybe offer a comforting condolence. But instead, he laughed. The Man with No Face let out a deep laugh from the depths of his stomach.
“So, you’ll try again! And the sea will take it again! And you will learn. A failure that teaches you is no failure at all! Join me, and let us fail together.” The Man with No Face stood up enthusiastically with his branch, eagerly prepared to create.
As the Boy watched the Man begin to draw, a subtle smile broke through his despondence. The sadness within him was suddenly subdued as he was compelled to participate. Still the memories lingered, and yet their grasp softened. Standing up off the bench with the Man, he retrieved his discarded brush.
They wielded their sticks side by side, and created a beautiful mural along the beach. The contours painted by the man were sculpted by the amalgamation of all of his failures. The Boy’s by just the one. Yet as their projections intermingled, the boundaries between their experience fizzled away as the picture became whole.
There were no requirements for the ocean. They could provide no effort and the water would still accept it. And so they chose to imbue this mural with their own temporary purpose.
The Boy ran down the shoreline with his stick held behind, his own lines merging seamlessly with that of the Man with No Face’s, and the detail became immaculate. His hood fell as he ran, trailing behind him as though it couldn’t even keep up with his pace. Together, they made a painting, whole and complete, and they returned to their seats to watch as, inevitably, the ocean would come to escort it to what lies beyond.