Monday, January 14, 2013
Today was frighteningly warm at sixty degrees, and thus it was the best January day for beachcombing in my memory. I had a couple of hours, so there I drove. The only company on the beach, aside from my companion, were dogwalkers. The seashells far outnumbered the bits of flotsam washed ashore; that surprised me a bit, but then it is January after all. I skipped stones, inspected shells, and used a good percentage of my physical strength to liberate a lobster pot mired in the sand. It was a successful little outing, and I really felt peaceful.
There are, at least for me, planeloads of irony in finding quietude (if not quiet) at Yirrell Beach. I get out of Cambridge in order to escape the cacophony of city sounds, supreme among them the umbrella of racket coming from Logan Airport a very few miles away. Yirrell Beach is a few hundred yards from the thresholds of two of Logan's runways. As one looks out at the ocean, one sees jumbo jets coming straight at one and passing a mere two hundred feet or so directly overhead, every minute or two. Why is it that the intermittent roar of individual planes can be a respite from the constant hum of dozens of them?