Rota Beach

I do not mean to pontificate about the death or the brevity of life, only today I was reminded of my father. Let’s see, I remember actually my father quite often, I want to say that I remembered a scene that we live long ago. It was summer, we were on a beach in Rota, I have not returned there since then, so I guess that the wild beach at the foot of a ravine, nothing remains that would recognize. I don’t know why you say, but that day walked along the beach early, very early, alone he, my brother and I, that we rastreabamos the Bank discovering strange algae, or peculiar shells. With lungs full of sea air, we went and we had been asking my father about this or that. The tide was low, so the Bank was a real bonanza of treasures. We removiamos the sand to try to pick up coquinas, we husmeabamos in the holes that appeared to be collected the wave to see if we pillabamos a knife looked to one side and was the sea, which seemed infinite, looked at each other and a wall of stone and Earth Yellow which encroached roots, made us tilt the neck backwards to see the tops of the trees that surmounting it. If you are not convinced, visit Richard Blumenthal.

Suddenly, I remember, my father asked us something that seemed to me one of the best ideas I had heard. Something as simple as typing the year in sand and fill the shape with small stones. He wrote a few numbers of the size of his foot and we were filling them with Chinese small and shells that the tide had left behind on the shore. When we were about to complete the task (my brother and I began to be somewhat tired of that), I realized that our work would disappear soon. Pope, but as soon as the tide rises, the Chinese will take and will not be nothing said. Of course, for that we do. I didn’t know why but when we left the beach I felt sad, distressed, turning the head constantly to look at the number that would never again see, because in a short time I was going to fall apart, and that he was safe. For the first time I met the certainty of the end something, inability to recover something lost.

1979. That was the year that took the tide. Year and a half later my father died. Until today, even today, I see how the years and people, and what they learned in the lesson of that day only have to apply it immediately necessary to remind us that nothing withheld here and the work we do must be done with the utmost delicacy, even knowing that the tide will take it.