When I walk on a beach, I like to walk in the foam left by the receding waves. The waves roll in with a cadence of muffled drums. Each receding wave pulls a shroud of foam over the polished sand. Finally, they abdicate their long rule of the ocean at the edge of unyielding land. The wave’s furthest progress is etched in the sand by the thinning foam. The sand under the foam molds perfectly to your bare foot, your stride becomes effortless and naturally balanced. Walking just a foot or two higher, the sand is still dry, hard and jolting to your knees and hips.  A little lower is the slurry, so you can not get a good grip. To have a nice steady walk on the beach, you have to keep to that narrow line in the sand marked by the froth of the dying wave. 

I also like that part of the beach because it is the territory of the Sanderlings.  A walk at flood tide will often be accompanied by these little sandpiper type birds. They put on a frenetic display: with legs a-blur, they race the waves with joyful abandon. As they chase each receding wave, they pause to poke their beak into the soft sand a few times before retreating from the next incoming wave, as if it’s touch would be fatal.  

Sanderlings perform one of the longest migrations of all birds. In June they gather in monogamous pairs or sometimes in menage a trois along the High Arctic. Three to four eggs are laid in a shallow depression on the rocky ground. Incubation can be shared between two or in various combinations among three birds. Occasionally, the female will lay two broods with two different males, then the males will incubate the eggs. If that is the case the female will conveniently start her trip south early. The eggs hatch in about 30 days; the chicks feed themselves and seventeen days later they take their first flight. About six weeks after nesting the migration starts: generally mid–July to early August. Some travel 1,900 miles, populating both North American coasts; others end up 6,200 miles away in South America and even Australia. By March they have started the trip back north. Non-breeding juveniles often remain on southern beaches year around, until they reach breeding age. When watching these little birds on the beach, it is hard to imagine them performing these prodigious flights. 

Although they certainly supply entertainment to those watching; their charges and retreats have a serious purpose. I have read that there are over four thousand various crustaceans, worms and other invertebrates living in every square meter of beach sand. They are dependent on the plankton delivered by incoming waves. Most of their time is spent several inches below the surface– out of the way of their long billed predators. But, when the surf comes up over their burrows, they surface into the thin layer of saturated sand to feed on plankton–where they are vulnerable to the cute, but efficient, Sanderlings. It is this particular confluence of sand, water and little crabs, confined to a narrow portion of beach, that powers the migration of the Sanderlings. 

I have observed Sanderlings on beaches from New England, to California, to Florida. My family vacationed many times on Assateague Island in Maryland: camping by the dunes and spending many days on its undeveloped beach. These simple vacations of living by the schedule of the tides, wind and sun are among my most memorable. I remember my son, Dana, with his skinny legs, imitating the little birds chasing waves back and forth in the gleaming sand. I remember walking in the familiar strip of sand where the waves end, hand in hand with my wife, Joan, the Sanderlings scattering and skittering ahead of us.

The last time I visited the Sanderlings was a weekend in March. It was the day after the funeral of my friend Alex.  Alex and I graduated high school together; he was my college roommate where we played on the soccer team. He was the best man at my wedding.  We had a steady friendship, but after he moved to Florida, regrettably I did not maintain good contact, and we only saw each other every few years. I was inexorably drawn to attend his memorial: to give support to his family, and to provide myself with closure of a relationship that had lasted nearly fifty years. After the service, Joan and I  gathered with Alex’s family at his home. In the evening we said good-bye to his brothers, his two children and his wife. We left them to start the long process of living life without Alex. 

The next day, Joan and I found a beach; the sun was warm; the ocean breeze brought fragrant memories of by-gone beaches.  I was in a contemplative, melancholy mood as we walked along that boundary between our home on land, and the unknown depths of the sea. The tide was coming in; the waves crested and fell, dying at our feet. The Sanderlings made me smile as they carried on their joyous work in the space and time between one wave, and the next.