Last weekend, I went for a walk with a friend at beautiful Reid State Park. It was going to be hot in town, and the beach promised cool ocean breezes and the peacefulness of the ocean pulsing rhythmically against the sandy shore.

We went early, to avoid the last-week-of-summer crowds, and indeed there was no line of cars at the entrance and plenty of room in the parking lot. As we started along the short path to the half-mile beach, my friend spotted a couple with a dog on a leash ahead of us.

My friend – who is most certainly not a dog person – pointed to a sign along the path that read “No dogs allowed April 1 to September 30” and pressed her lips close together. It was still August. Dogs were not permitted.

We soon arrived at the beach, and it did not disappoint.

The ocean breezes were refreshing; not too cold, not too warm. The air was invigorating, perfumed with the salty, living scent of the ocean in Maine. The view was postcard perfect, the sand was soft and warm on my bare feet.

Ahead of us, the couple with the dog meandered along, the dog playfully prancing along on his leash, never more than ten feet away from his humans. My friend, seeing the dog, dark against the backdrop of an almost empty beach, repeated her mantra: “dogs aren’t allowed on the beach. That dog shouldn’t be here. Didn’t they see the signs? The plovers nest here.”

I didn’t comment, didn’t see the point in challenging her.

We walked together as we always did, not too fast, not too slow, picking up the occasional shell or piece of sea-smoothed driftwood. The couple with the dog had staked out a spot and were sitting in their beach chairs enjoying the view, the dog leashed but wandering around them in a ten foot circle.

When we got close, I could sense my friend tense up, shoulders hunched, lips pressed. Coming to a decision, she strode over and bent down close to speak to the man in his beach seat. My friend is hard of hearing, and hadn’t worn her hearing aids to the beach. I sighed and stayed back, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop her from saying her piece. She would bring her message of lawfulness to everyone! Usually I love that my friend will do her thing and speak her truth without worrying what other people would do or what’s “appropriate”.

Soon, though, I could see things were escalating.

The man stood up quickly, agitated, speaking loudly. I walked over, hoping to intervene. I smiled to the woman with him, who seemed approachable. She explained that her partner had PTSD, that the dog was with him everywhere to help him deal with the demons within and around, that he was being triggered by my friend. I explained that my friend was hard of hearing and didn’t mean to get so close. The woman nodded in understanding. I was sure she felt as I did – wary, caught in the middle of two well-meaning adults that were not going to listen to each other. We saw the miscommunication, but with both parties dug in, it didn’t seem like we could do much.

The man became more and more agitated, speaking in a loud, low voice: “get away, get out of my space. what’s wrong with you?” My friend was not hearing and not understanding, caught up in her own mission to play by the rules and leave the beach dog-free as it was supposed to be. She tried talking some more, but soon gave up and walked back to me, having said her piece, even if he hadn’t been listening and she hadn’t heard him either.

We walked along in silence for a bit and then I offered what the woman had said about the man and his demons. My friend is such a kind-hearted person, I was sure that understanding the situation would help her compassionate side balance her sense of the rule of law. But defensiveness begets defensiveness. “If he had a service dog, why didn’t it have a service dog’s vest? Why was it wandering on its leash? Service dogs are trained to stay by their owner’s side. Comfort dogs aren’t service dogs. I don’t think there’s an exception for them.”

She was adamant, knowing the beach laws – just and clear – even while the rules around comfort dogs are not so black and white.

As we walked, we talked. How tricky it is to balance the needs of the many (to enjoy the beach) with the needs of a subgroup (people with disabilities, people with support animals). How people abusing the “right” for support animals makes it harder for people with real needs to get the support they need. Whether the rules made sense on a late summer day when the beach was empty (I argued that they did not; she argued that rules were rules; I argued that maybe the rules needed to be revisited). Just talking, going over the nuance in the situation, allowing compassion to seep in.

We strolled to the end of the beach. After a few more minutes of silent contemplation, my friend said softly “maybe I should apologize to him.”

But the moment had passed.

Hindsight is 20/20 and reality is soften so immediate, so nearsighted. There was no way to claw back the misunderstanding that turned into a yucky interaction. No way to reconnect. No way to recapture an opportunity lost.

We turned back towards the car. My friend and I passed the couple with the dog, but there was no chance to go back and make it turn out differently, make it feel right. The woman was waist deep in the ocean, the man staring out at her, ignoring us. The dog barked and barked (he hadn’t done that before) on his short leash.

I’m sure that interaction cast its shadow on the day for all of us.

I know I left the beach weighed down with the memory of miscommunication rather than buoyed by the beauty of the ocean. I’ll bet the man left feeling bitter and resentful, unheard for perhaps the umpteenth time when he’d only set out to enjoy the day like we had: a nice morning at the beach that ended up with an ugly altercation and a reminder of ever-present demons. And my friend carried her remorse for a good intention gone awry for a long time. It’s hard to be in a world of unintended consequences, where too often we miss the mark, squashing the spark of connection.

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