A Wooden Spade They Gave to Me

We went to the beach. Each year, John utters the magic words, "I'm the son of...", and the beach police wave us in for our free day of salty bliss.

I love the ocean. When I was five, on my family's most glorious vacation (we went somewhere other than the State Fair), I ran into the waves and carried out with me memories of laughing and the sting of salt in my eyes. I held its taste on my tongue and deep in my throat, keeping memories of gulping and sputtering and a sticky, sun-red body. And a dim memory of my mom, rising and falling far beyond me, a small shape suspended who moved through waves to bring back a giant shell.

When I was 18, I walked on sand in a dark, salty wind and stepped in for the second time. I stood between the sea and shore in silence and absolute awe. So much space was there.

It's different in the daytime, spread thickly with harried mothers and lounging boys and girls who lazily eye each other and rich city weekenders and those bodies who come only for brown skin and wrinkles. I like it then, too. The wind sweeps me clean, no matter who else shares the beach.

I didn't take many pictures, though. Sand ruins cameras, and without a camera, snapshots dies. (I was only looking out for you all.)

Susannah shrieked with terror when I took her near the water, but Millie and Annie delighted in everything.













When John left with the littles to get Susannah an ice cream cone, the big girls and I together ran headlong into the water, dancing and laughing at our good fortune. The sand! The ocean! The waves! The wind!

Later, we joined them and ate the largest ice pops I've ever seen. I wish I had a picture of those ice pops. They'd strike you dumb.



This next is my favorite picture of our beach day. It's our custom after we leave the beach proper to drive to the bay for Susannah-friendly water. This time, the water was dark and smelly from a storm, so we explored an inlet instead. John took this picture of me, Millie, and Annika looking at cool things. Crab exoskeletons, some hollow, some not, and all with pincers that still worked; pieces of jellyfish, quivering sadly when we poked them with twigs; and creatures in countless burrowed spirals beneath our feet.

I loved this day.



The tin pails usually carry pine cones, grass, and clods of dirt around, but we returned them here filled with sea pieces instead.