A Man Wearing a Kilt on the Beach

My wife and I headed to the beach this past weekend. It had been ages since we enjoyed the smell of rolling waves, and left our fading footprints on the seashore.

As a military retiree I have base privileges, and we rented an apartment at Patrick Air Force Base. One day Jean and I drove over to the beach, set up our umbrella and “went in for a dip.”

Though spring had not yet given way to summer, and the water was a bit cold, we braved the chill and dove head first into the surf. While my body emitted an involuntary “brrrr”!!!, the initial shock was soon forgotten, and we frolicked, (as much as an old guy and gal can frolic) in the waves for an hour.

Having finished our swim, we walked back to our beach chairs, and settled in for the duration of a rapidly receding afternoon.

And then it happened. 

Had Mr. Neilsen, himself, magically appeared like a Genie, and given me an ad-lib survey, I could never have imagined what came next.

Suddenly, I cast my eyes towards the surf, and “lo, and behold” I noticed the most peculiar figure standing barefoot in three inches of salt water; looking longingly towards the east. 

“Isham,” (for lack of a more appropriate identifier) appeared to be thirty years of age, of average build and height, wearing a dark t-shirt, and a tan… kilt.

In my almost 2/3 of a century of life on this planet, and having visited the beaches of Florida multiplied times throughout the years, I have NEVER witnessed a man, for all intents and purposes, wearing a dress. (A male dress to be sure).

The beach and its age-old familiar flavor lost something of its allure for a while, as Jean and I studied the man in the kilt. Oddly, he never moved, not for the longest time, but continued to stare out over the azure, churning waters which ebbed and flowed around his ankles.

And while his wife, (or girlfriend) seemed to pick up wayward shells, and rambled to and fro, Isham never moved, nor even turned to notice if she was within a hundred miles.

A young man wearing a kilt standing in ankle-deep water on an Atlantic beach; his eyes fixed on some invisible, (at least to me) image which begged to be found out.

And suddenly, my mind, no, my spirit made some sort of ethereal association between the present time, and a time which had long since “gone by the way.”

For you see, there was another young man, (don’t you know) who once stood on a very similar beach, and who so much like our own young man in the kilt, cast his eyes towards the east; remembering a place from whence he came, and to which he would never return. 

For you see, this original Isham was my ancient Scottish grandfather, a man who having left his beloved homeland behind, loved and embraced his adopted country, and who served that budding nation throughout the course of the American Revolution.

A momentary, but compelling association. Two men on the beach wearing… kilts. One who has long-since gone on to his reward. One who stands in his place, and beckons one such as me to…

Remember.


  By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary," Vol. 30. Copyright pending

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