By George K. Werner (former education minister)
During this past week, my beach walk took me from Catholic Hospital to John F. Kennedy Memorial Hospital. It is a scenic walk—wide sky, restless water, long stretches of sand—and a revealing one. Between these two places, a lot happens on the beach. Lives intersect. Stories overlap. Hustles unfold. As I walked, I found myself reflecting on how the beach, somehow, becomes a therapist for all of us who choose, daily, to be on it.
Before clinics open and long after offices close, the beach is already at work. Fishermen arrive first, reading the tide the way others read reports. They mend nets not just to catch fish, but to steady their thoughts. The sea gives no guarantees, only rhythm. That is often enough.
One morning, two fishermen called out my name.
“Mr. Werner!”
They were from Marshall, but now at Bernard Beach. Not because they preferred it, but because the fish had moved. They moved with it. That is the hustle. Follow the fish. Follow the tide. Follow survival. The beach tracks these migrations better than any policy document ever will. It has tracked them for centuries—for the Klao, the Fantis of Ghana, the Mandinka along the Senegambia coasts—communities whose lives have always followed water, wind, and season rather than borders and paperwork.
A little further along, I ran into four young Ghanaians. We spoke Twi, easily and without ceremony. One of them, Kwame, told me they were heading to Small Town “to relax.” They laughed when he said it. They are fishermen too. Relaxation, in this context, does not mean rest—it means a pause between tides, a brief easing of the body before the next long pull of the net. Even fishermen need somewhere to loosen their shoulders and clear their heads. The beach gives them that.
Soon after come the women—buyers, sellers, carriers of both fish and family economies. They bargain with precision, laugh loudly, argue briefly, and move on. Their balance is not only physical; it is economic and emotional. Heads straight, backs firm, baskets full. The beach teaches posture.
The air itself tells stories. There is the clean, sharp smell of fresh fish just pulled from the sea. Then the heavier scent of fish laid out deliberately in the sun—mwen mwen—left to dry, to turn, to mature into what Liberians jokingly call “dry rice medicine.” It is an acquired smell, unmistakable, carrying both survival and tradition. Mixed into it all are other odors the city prefers not to name—evidence of open defecation, of inadequate sanitation, of people with nowhere else to go. Even this, the beach absorbs. It does not flinch.
Scattered along the shoreline are what the sea itself has rejected: plastic bottles, torn bags, cracked sandals, food wrappers—debris carried by waves and left behind when the water retreats. These are not natural to the beach, yet they have become familiar. The ocean returns them to us silently, as if saying, this belongs to you. The beach holds beauty and consequence side by side.
As the sun climbs, young people take over the sand. Swimming becomes freedom. Football becomes escape. Barefoot goals are marked with slippers, stones, or nothing at all. There are no referees, no sponsorships, no VAR—only rules agreed on the spot. Nearby, children swim in adjoining waterways, splashing without fear, learning early that water can be both play and promise.
Young love makers curl into each other in the sand, sheltered by laughter and possibility. Friends dance to new music beats from small speakers, bodies moving as if tomorrow will surely be better. For a few hours, hope has a soundtrack.
Runners pass through in measured strides, chasing clarity more than fitness. Each footfall presses stress into the sand and leaves it behind. The ocean does not applaud, but it witnesses. Sometimes that is all the encouragement one needs.
Then there are the quiet ones. People praying—some standing, some kneeling, some staring straight into the horizon as if expecting an answer to rise from the water. Others meditate, eyes closed, breathing in salt, fish, smoke, and memory. A few practice their voice pitch, rehearsing speeches, sermons, songs, or simply the courage to speak. The beach is a rehearsal space for life.
Addicts shelter under coconut trees, seeking shade from the sun and from themselves. They are not chased away by the tide. They are not interrogated by the wind. The sea offers no cure, but it offers presence—and for some, that is the first step back.
Even zogos gather here in small groups—holding quiet conversations among themselves, protective of their own. They sit slightly apart, watching the tide, watching people, watching each other. The smell of their hustle hangs around them, and the visible marks of their struggle are tattooed on their bodies.
Many are addicts or substance abusers, but they are also people managing stress, trauma, hunger, and uncertainty with the few tools available to them. Substance use becomes a coping mechanism when counseling is absent, when treatment is out of reach, when survival comes first. On the beach, they are not chased away. The ocean does not interrogate their choices. It listens—and for those who live on the margins of attention and care, that quiet acceptance matters.
Among them, a young man called out my name. We knew each other from Buchanan, where he once helped clean my fish. Back then, he was steady, alert, useful. Now he tells me he lives on Fourth Street in Monrovia with his girlfriend. His eyes were restless. His words rushed ahead of him. He looked like he was high on something. Life had moved him too—but not with the same mercy the tide offers fish.
What makes the beach powerful is not its beauty—though it is beautiful—but its refusal to discriminate. No appointment. No intake form. No fee. Fishermen from Marshall and Ghana. A young man from Buchanan. Women traders, runners, children, lovers, dancers, prayers, addicts, zogos, dreams—along with debris, smells of sustenance, and signs of neglect—all barefoot on the same ground. The ocean does not flatten hierarchy, but the shoreline softens it.
In a country where formal mental health services are scarce, overstretched, or inaccessible, people have found their own therapies. The beach absorbs grief, anger, prayers, songs, secrets—and even the waste we fail to manage. It holds stories long after those who told them have gone home.
And when evening comes, the sun sets on the sea, its light bouncing off the water, scattering gold across faces and sand.
On fishermen following fish from Marshall to Bernard Beach.
On Ghanaians heading to Small Town “to relax.”
On women counting the day’s earnings in their heads.
On runners slowing their pace.
On children drying off in the fading light.
On young lovers still curled together.
On friends dancing to one last beat.
On prayers whispered and voices rehearsed.
On addicts sheltering under coconut trees.
On zogos hustling differently—some for survival, some for escape.
All of us seeking therapy of some sort.
Long before therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists were trained to counsel and dispense medicine, the ocean was already doing its quiet work—listening without judgment, absorbing pain, and returning people to themselves, even if only for a moment.
