Three Legs

I am going to wear my leg today I declare with a grin, take two sticks… Good idea Mr H replies

It might help with the rocks, stop my foot from rolling over, stop me dislocating my ankle. It’s worth a try but remember its tricky out there he says with a frown. We pull on our waterproof coats to shield us from the English holiday drizzle, Mr H locks the cottage door.

The walk along the marine parade is easy enough, one foot and stick in front of the other just like my childhood ballet classes, left arm – and stick - right foot, right arm – and stick – left foot…

My paralysed left foot is held aloft by my splint which out of vanity I rarely wear. Once we reach the rock filled beach I pause, hesitate, turn to Mr H with a nervous smile;

Its ridiculous I say, I walked the Grand Canyon, climbed mountain after mountain, jumped out of an aeroplane but now a beach full of rocks makes my legs tremble

Take it step by step Mr H says as I grab his arm to steady myself as I encounter the first wobbly, slippy rock. I’ll tread the path in front of you and you can follow in my footsteps. I follow as my feet sink into the shiny, silvery shingle

This is Ok I say as I pause to regain my balance and watch as the tide slowly retreats into the murky sea exposing flat, safe, brown sand

But as we reach the larger rocks, I stumble, my left foot turns over on every rock despite the third leg. I abandon my second stick and instead cling onto Mr H’s arm as he guides me as safely as possible step by step, rock by rock…

Let’s aim for the sand as the tide retreats, I say reluctantly. Walk diagonally Mr H tells me, it reduces the camber and the slope.

Safely on the sand I look sideways at all the huge wet boulders I want to climb over, I watch enviously as young and old holiday makers spring from rock to rock. Even though Mr H could do the same he never leaves my side

I tread cautiously over seaweed covered flat brown rock now exposed by the retreating sea. I spot sea anemones, crawling crabs and something bobbing up and down out at sea…

It’s a seal I squeal but when Mr H checks with his binoculars he realises the seal is not moving. It’s a stone, a rock he tells me and I walk on, my shoulders hunched in concentration.

I stop after every few steps, pause, look around, breathe deeply. I let the ozone, seaweed smell of the seashore slither into my lungs. My hunched shoulders drop and my breathing becomes deeper and slower. I stay in the moment.

I scan the surrounding rocks, rocks within my reach, for any  signs of prehistoric life. Worn away fossils have left their circular mark but their details have long ago been washed out to sea by the turning tide.

I glance again at the unclimbable rocks, turn to Mr H with a resigned smile, its not going to happen is it. I don’t think so he replies as his mouth curls up with an understanding smile.

I look around once more, then turn to tread the stone filled shingle beach back towards the marine parade …

Tomorrow we will try three legs on more solid terrain Mr H suggests... 

and by doing so we are rewarded, not by a fossil but with a stunning orchid hidden in a wild flower meadow...

   

When defeat comes, accept it as a signal that your plans are not sound, rebuild those plans, and set sail once more toward your coveted goal

Napoleon Hill