Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (21 page)
Today we are still growing older, but no one even cares who is the tallest. Instead we watch our own children at play and recall memories of our youth. And I like to think of our ancestor Robert looking down and watching as each new generation begins building its own castles of sand.
Emily Parke Chase
I remember it as if it were yesterdayâmy first trip to the ocean. Summers spent with Aunt Orpha and Uncle Don at their home in Pennsylvania were always something to look forward to, but a trip to Atlantic Cityâthat was beyond my wildest dreams!
I had never, ever stayed in a hotel, and this one would be right on the beach. My cousin, Cynthia from Trenton, New Jersey, was going to be my playmate, and as giggly thirteen-year-old girls, we were both excited to see each other, to enjoy the miles of beach along the Atlantic Ocean, and explore the famous Atlantic City boardwalk. The landlocked, sprawling city of Detroit where I lived, with its miles of concrete streets filled with honking traffic, had nothing like this.
“Now, girls,” Uncle Don said as he gave us our very own room key, “sleep in as late as you want and when you wake up, just pick up the phone and call for room service.”
Room service? Breakfast in bed? Sleep as late as you want with no
one telling you it's time to get up?
I thought I was dreaming, or better yet, living in the lap of luxury!
The next morning, Cynthia and I woke with great anticipation. With tummies full after ordering just about everything on the breakfast menu, from pancakes to bacon and eggs, we put on our swimsuits and headed for the beach. I thought I had stepped into a picture postcard. Seagulls soared in the brilliant blue sky, and the sun's rays shimmered on the ocean waves. Wiggling our toes in the sugar-white sand, we looked for where the beach towels were spread as our aunt and uncle waited for us to join them. The ocean beckoned, enticing us farther and farther out until the first crashing wave caught us and I tasted my first gulp of salt water. Squealing with delight, Cynthia and I waited for the next rolling wave, determined to jump even higher to avoid another swallow of the salty sea.
That evening after dinner we strolled down the boardwalk, where I had my first sweet taste of saltwater taffy. Vendor stalls were everywhere, selling souvenirs to take back home. “That box of taffy won't even make it back to your hotel room, girls,” Uncle Don teased. “Let's find something you can keep longer than that. How about having an artist draw your picture?” With a piece of charcoal in his hand, the boardwalk artist grinned and began to sketch my likeness. As I sat as still as a statue, I thought,
Is this really happening
to me? This has got to be one of the best days of my life!
All day long I had felt like a princess, and this was the crowning touch.
Today, the Atlantic City of yesterday is goneâreplaced with high-rise condos and casinos. Yet, whenever I open the tattered box of family photos and mementos where the charcoal sketch is stored, I can smell the salt-air breezes, see the leisurely crowds strolling down the boardwalk, and almost taste the saltwater taffy as I envision it being pulled, cut, and wrapped into those tasty morsels. More than the fun times on the beach and boardwalk, it reminds me of the gift that my aunt and uncle continuously sharedâlots of time and attention wrapped in love. “Gee whiz,” I can hear myself saying, “You sure know how to make a girl feel special!”
Karen R. Kilby
Two bags of old, stale hot dog rolls they carted to the sand With expectations of happy seagulls eating from their hands.
These chubby hands belonged to kids, ages four and a great big six,
Who promised their mom and daddy, no water and NO TRICKS!
And so, they ran down joyfully, skipping, and leaping too,
Hit the beach a-giggling, the four-year-old tumbling a time or two.
Finally, they seized the moment of tearing moldy hot dog buns,
And threw them in the air about them, ripping through each one.
The last they saved to eat themselves and sat, and wondered when
Their hungry friends the seagulls would discover, descend on them.
“Here they come!” she shouted as one gull found the bready scene,
And then the flock hovered; it was almost like a dream.
Jubilant smiles prevailed as the seagulls ate their fill,
And one brave bird decided to munch from her hand into his bill.
A successful feeding frenzy had the kids with hot dog rolls.
At the beach you make your own fun,
So much fun for young and old!
Julie Callas
MINNESOTA
Harbor Beach
MINNESOTA
Harbor Beach
F
or whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.
e. e. cummings
Daddy loved the ocean. He adored everything about it, from the tangy salt scent to the scratch of fine sand between his toes. The sound of the sea was his siren song, and he nurtured this abiding love both within himself and me.
During high school breaks, Wednesdays were “our day,” and we cherished them as a gift. We each accepted through tacit understanding that time and my own inevitable maturity would steal those Wednesdays from us, so we treasured the moments and made as many memories as we could.
One of our favorite Wednesday outings was to drive along the New Hampshire coast, sometimes heading into Massachusetts. In the winter we bundled up and walked on the beach whenever the wind and weather permitted, and many times we returned to the car with cheeks and noses chilled red, glad for the warm air blowing from the vents.
The myriad times we spent at the beach have meshed in my mind like a web of fine silk threads, each different in texture and hue but spun into a fine tapestry of cherished memories. Yet there is one day that stands out from the others, a day when Daddy showed me something of uncommon beauty that illuminated my imagination and settled in my heart for a lifetime.
The weather was warming up. It was no longer winter, but not yet spring, and the arcades and amusements at Salisbury Beach were just beginning to open in preparation for warmer weather. The old wooden roller coaster stood idle, a silent sentinel over sand and surf.
There was yet a nip in the air, so we dressed for comfort. Daddy wore a light jacket and I donned my favorite cardigan, one that reached my thighs and offered big front pockets to warm my hands. We walked along the raised wooden platform that stood on the beach and wandered into the nearest arcade. It was empty, except for the proprietor, and we spent at least an hour there playing Skeeball and trying to best each other at pinball.
Our next stop was a little seafood stand that offered delicious fried clams served in greasy red and white cardboard containers. We found a picnic spot and ate there, admired the occasional boat on the horizon, and enjoyed the play of waves against the shore.
I began to feel the cold but was enjoying the day too much to complain. The gusty wind competed with the ocean breakers for sound dominance, so Daddy and I listened to this odd harmony of air and water, savored our clams, and watched the sea.
“It's raining sunshine,” Daddy said, nudging my shoulder with his.
I glanced at him askance. It was sunny, but the temperature bordered on cold because of the wind. What on earth was he talking about?
“Look.” Daddy nodded to the sea and smiled. “There are sun drops, millions of sun drops.”
I blinked back at the surface of the water and felt the smile light my face when I saw the ocean through his eyes. He was right. It was rainingâit was pouringâsun drops!
The silvery sunlight shone down on the huge expanse of sea, and with each watery swirl and shimmering peak, the reflecting rays created the illusion of sunshine rain.
I watched the diamond-bright sun drops dance on the water, the sight so dazzling it made my eyes tear. I had loved and watched the sea my whole life but never noticed the sun drops until that moment.
Those beach days with my daddy are long gone, absorbed into my personal past. They are treasures to touch and hold close, memories of cherished times with a special man. To have them is a blessing, and yet it seems not nearly enough. Still, I am grateful for those days and all the things he taught me.
I learned that day on the beach that beauty manifests itself in unexpected ways, that what I see and how I see it are largely a matter of perspective, not always reality. I learned that things, and people, too, are so much more than what they seem, that hidden treasures abound, even in things we take for granted, if we illuminate a different view, a different angle.
I love the sea and can't smell it or sense it without thinking of Daddy and our special beach days. I think of him, too, when flashing sun drops dance like diamonds on the water.
And I am struck anew by the beauty of it, each and every time.
Lisa Ricard Claro
As I walk along the beach
I pick up shells I like to keep
Without a thought I quickly discard
The broken, old, faded, and scarred
Those with colors bright and perfect form
