The Hourglass of Pismo

The hourglass floated in the middle of the tide.

Its upper chamber held the profile of a boy no older than ten, face tilted to the sky, light in his eyes, seafoam in his hair. The lower chamber cradled an older man, worn by years, face softened by the erosion of time, yet still holding a trace of the boy's wonder.

Each grain of sand that passed through the thin glass neck shimmered like a memory — catching light, then falling.

Thomas sat on a weathered bench near the Pismo Beach Pier, his cane resting against his leg. The ocean whispered before him, waves rolling in like breath. It was early morning, the kind of blue-tinged dawn where everything looked like it was made of dreams.

He rubbed his knuckles. They protested — stiff and swollen from years of arthritis. The doctor said warm water helped. But Thomas hadn’t touched the ocean in over twenty years.

“Why don’t you go in?” a voice said.

Thomas turned slowly, but no one was there. Then he heard it again — clearer this time, like it was coming from inside him.

“Go let the waves hit you in the face.”

He smiled softly. “You again?”

The boy's voice giggled. “Yeah, me again. You think just because you're old, I went away?”

Thomas closed his eyes. In the dim space behind his eyelids, the hourglass turned. The younger version of himself leaned over the glass edge, peering down.

“You used to love this beach,” the boy said. “You used to run into the water without even checking how cold it was.”

Thomas chuckled. “I also used to be able to run without my knees catching fire.”

“You’re still funny,” the boy said. “But you’re not doing stuff. You remember bodysurfing? You used to try to ride every wave, even the big ones. One knocked your swim trunks off.”

“That wave stole my dignity.”

“It gave you a great story,” the boy replied. “You were alive.”

Thomas opened his eyes and looked out toward the surf. A group of children darted in and out of the water like sandpipers. One of them screamed with laughter as a wave hit her square in the chest.

A young couple nearby were setting up a volleyball net. Two teenage boys were trying — and failing — to do backflips in the sand. A man with silver hair ran barefoot with his dog, both of them barking with joy.

“I miss it,” Thomas whispered. “The feeling of forgetting everything. Just… crashing into the waves.”

“So go do it,” said the boy.

“It hurts now.”

“So does not doing it,” the boy said gently. “You hurt anyway. At least make the pain worth something.”

Thomas stood slowly. Every joint clicked in protest, but the pull was stronger than the ache.

The hourglass tilted.

He made his way down the slope toward the wet sand, cane in one hand, sandals in the other. The ocean roared like it recognized him.

He stepped into the foam. It was colder than he remembered, but it shocked him awake. Another step. Then another.

“You have to dive into the next one,” the boy whispered. “Let it smack you right in the face. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Thomas muttered aloud.

A wave came rolling in — not huge, but strong enough. Thomas bent forward, took a breath, and hurled himself into it.

The ocean wrapped around him like an old friend. It knocked the breath from his lungs, stung his eyes with salt, and rinsed his hesitation clean.

When he surfaced, he was laughing — coughing, sputtering, but laughing.

“You still got it,” the boy said. “Kinda.”

Thomas grinned. He paddled farther out, letting the rhythm carry him. His body protested, but it also remembered. The lift of the swell, the timing, the balance.

A wave came. Without thinking, he pushed off — arms forward, chest down. For a moment, gravity disappeared. He glided.

He rode it.

The beach rose to meet him, and he rolled out of the wave like a seal, breathless and grinning like a fool.

He lay there, staring up at the clouds.

The hourglass shimmered in his mind again. But this time, the boy was laughing from the top chamber, and the man below wasn’t just waiting for sand to fall — he was laughing too.

The two selves — one young, one old — looked at each other through the narrow channel of time.

“You see?” the boy said. “You’re not done. You just forgot how to play.”

Thomas sat up slowly, muscles aching in protest. But his heart was light.

The tide moved in again, gentle and insistent. He stood and walked back into it.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was running out of time.

He felt like he was inside it — alive, buoyant, and part of something endless.