Barefoot Walking at Headlands

Wet rock is smothered in swaths of green algae, water squeezes in the cracks between my toes. I curl my feet tightly around a thin stone ridge as I navigate the rocky landscape around the lighthouse. I pick my way back to more solid ground. Something sharp pierces my sole – a dead fish, washed up with half of its needle thin ribs protruding upwards. I shudder and pull my foot away, more careful to watch where I step. I feel slight regret for leaving my shoes in the car.

The scene at the beach is idyllic– under the sunlight and clear skies the water of Lake Erie is deep blue, lapping gently at the shore. From the rocky platform that hosts the lighthouse, thin green stems of white flowers curl over stone. As long as I don’t look down, it is a perfect day – but unfortunately, I have to watch my step.

In the dark crevices between cinder blocks that I climbed to reach the lighthouse is garbage tucked away, shiny metal of beer cans and cracked Solo cups, an old purple flip flop that must have fallen and was deemed irretrievable. I finally reach the sand, jump down from the rocks – and reel back in horror.

The beach is rocky with bleached and skeletal driftwood as always, and on my feet the water is as freezing as an ice bath, but today there is more trash than I have ever seen before, carelessly strewn like carpeting on the shore, people marking their territory, their dominion over nature. Beneath my foot metal crumples, and I pull back – a rumpled Coke can greets me. I return to the rocks to walk back to my car – at least there the garbage is hidden.

Out of the corner of my eye, there is a flash of green, and I drop into a squat to investigate. Could it be beach glass? I used to come to the beach with my friends and sift through the sand until I came home with handfuls of the green and brown shards, smoothed from the incessant beating of water against rock. I am quickly disappointed – it is only a piece of plastic.

The way back to my car is littered less with plastic and more with grapevines and tangled tree branches. My feet grow more confident on the rocky shore, and I find myself jumping nimbly from one stone to the next like it is a familiar route. I step back onto the sand, surrounded on either side by reeds and tall grass. The sand molds to the shape of my feet. When I reach the parking lot, the asphalt is rough against the soles of my feet, harder than any part of the beach. It was made for rubber tires and not bare feet. When I get back to the car, I put my shoes on and they feel strange and clunky – like they don’t fit my feet anymore.