One day, I’m going to own a little cottage on the beach, so when the weather is perfect or the mood suits me, I can wander to my heart’s content like I did long ago.
As a child, I’d disappear for hours and walk along the beach as if on pilgrimage seeking answers. The beach was my refuge but mom understood. I’d get up early most weekends, and with her permission, I’d traipse down the steep hill on Terra Mar Drive, pass homes that were still asleep, and step onto a shell littered beach. Mom believed in safety, so I was required to carry a backpack filled with necessities: sunglasses, sunscreen, hat, water, and snacks. In my eyes the most important item not to forget was a pal and shovel to carry home the shells and beach glass I would collect.
Overcast days were my favorite because I didn’t have to wear sunglasses. They distorted nature’s beauty with false tints of green and amber. At the bottom of our hill was a cul-de-sac which led to a path bordered with six foot tall box-woods. These were purposely planted to help deflect the fierce winds and flying sand. With each stride I grew closer. Soon I was at the threshold where grass met beach and the rush of the ocean greeted me. Arms wide, I ran to the water’s edge and dug my feet into the warm, slick sand. It oozed from between my toes and I smiled.
The visits were reverent. I’d close my eyes, take a deep breath, and suddenly the beach came alive. The scent of salt and seaweed flowed through my nostrils—pungent and stinging; a cool spray baptized me in the ways of Poseidon, and waves, tipped in white foam, crested out of arms reach. I was alone except for the seagulls. They sang like sirens diving onto the water’s surface in hopes of mesmerizing a fish or two.
I was right there beside you - thanks!
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