It’s tough to get close to a beach without access. From an overlook, I get a taste of the full view, smell, and sounds. Just a tantalizing taste. But a taste isn’t enough.

I have been to Nauset on Cape Cod hundreds of time. As a boy, the ocean—open clear out to Spain—called me. I spent hours walking the shore, looking for treasure. My teenager years, I took boats to the Outer Beach and hiked to the other side to hit the Atlantic. I was fearlessly able-bodied. I remember how it felt to flop, wet and exhausted, onto a beach towel in the hot sand, sun full in my face.

Today I draped my towel over my head and shoulders to ward off bugs, the so-called No See Ums that make their mark on my feet and lower legs. I am losing sensation and feeling, so I’m not always vigilant or aware. Every morning on this vacation, Leslie and I got up before five to drive to Coast Guard to catch the sunrise. Well-maintained mobi-mats allow beach access for wheelchair users down to the first lifeguard chair, beyond where the previous boardwalk had stopped. I watched the sunrise from my chair while Leslie ventured off to see the pod of seals resting on a nearby sand bar. That morning was windless, and I was swarmed. No way to signal Leslie, far out of sight. No way to make a solo trek back up the steep beach path and then maneuver the 200 feet of mishmash concrete to the parking lot. No life-guards on duty at this hour. So I was stuck

I had come to know some of the regulars: the retired scientist with a yearling Golden Retriever named Brody, the strong woman with two Bernese Mountain Dogs, and the young teacher with a three-month old Lab she called Scout. Each remarked how bad the bugs were on that particular day. I agreed. By now, I had wound my towel around my neck. I felt woefully unprepared. Leslie couldn’t return fast enough.

A woman I did not recognize came toward me, knelt, and started spraying my feet. “This will help.” I didn’t realize the damage until I looked down at my unfeeling feet now covered with welts. She clucked her tongue, “The brutes.” She showed me the bottle and misted me. I smelt lavender and rosemary. “I make it myself with essential oils.” She took the time to apply her potion to the back of my hands, my neck, and behind my ears. “It’s good for your skin, too.” I believed her. “I saw how miserable you looked, so I went back to the car for my remedy.”

The stinging stopped immediately, but the gesture lingered. A kind soul read my distress signals and provided relief. May we all do the same, some day, for some body, some time soon.