Ashes and Bad Planning

“Ashes to... Woofs? A Two-Person Beachside Farewell”

There are moments in life you imagine going a certain way — like a simple, heartfelt goodbye to a sibling gone too soon, just you and your sister, standing solemnly on a quiet bay area beach, the sun setting perfectly, the ocean gently carrying your brother’s ashes out to sea.

This was not that moment.

It started with a plan — or, more accurately, a mental Pinterest board I made in my head on the drive north out of the city over the Golden Gate Bridge. My sister and I would say something meaningful, maybe, a soundtrack of thoughtful farewell music would play out of no where, then watch as the tide gently swept our brother away into the deep blue Pacific Ocean beyond all cares. Quiet. Sacred. Cinematic.

Except… we forgot to check the tide tables.

So there we stood: just the two of us, ankle-deep in sand, beside a carefully sculpted little mound of ashes (yes, it did resemble a sandcastle, and no, we don’t recommend it), waiting for the ocean to do its symbolic thing. And the ocean? It did nothing. Waves crashed and foamy surf surged up the sand but no movement. I took a stick and drew a line in the sand to gauge if the water was indeed coming in. It was hard to tell. It was moving so slowly, mocking us like a grumpy retiree who didn’t want to work today.

Still, we were alone, and it was peaceful. For a moment, it felt kind of perfect.

Then the dogs came.

Woof. Out of nowhere, two neighborhood dogs came charging down the beach in a cloud of chaos. They made a beeline for our solemn little ash pile and — I wish I were making this up — rolled in it. Rolled. In. Our brother.

You ever try to stay respectfully silent while two lab mixes joyfully exfoliate themselves in your brother’s cremated remains? We did. And we failed. I think I made a noise that was part gasp, part wheeze, and part spiritual crisis.

The dogs’ owners strolled up behind them, completely unaware, and struck up a casual conversation about the weather. We didn’t say a word. Just stood there, nodding politely, as their dogs joyfully did snow angels in our brother. We didn't want to tell the owners what was going on.

Fun fact: our brother was not a fan of dogs.

Eventually, the tide remembered it was supposed to be symbolic and started creeping in. The dogs left, the sun set, and my sister and I got in the car in stunned silence. After a long pause, she said, “When we tell this story, maybe we leave out the part about the dogs.”

But honestly? I think that’s the best part.

Because life doesn’t go according to plan — not even the parts where someone dies. Especially not the sad parts. And when you’re standing on a beach, watching your brother’s final goodbye get photobombed by two overly affectionate fir babies, you realize something important: sadness is heavy, but laughter keeps you upright.

So, yes, maybe our beachside memorial wasn’t perfect. But it was us. Messy, weird, ridiculous — and exactly the kind of memory our brother probably would've rolled his eyes at... which is basically the highest compliment from him.

Next time, we’ll check the tide. But we’ll still bring laughter. Note to self, don't plan to fail.