Returning to Seacliff now, what feels like a lifetime later, I find its enchantment remains—made all the more dazzling by my travels. No sands of San Sebastian or Cannes seem as clean, no bay of L.A. or Maine or Spain so unique. Mornings when the porpoises leap and evenings when the pelicans feed, I feel there is no better beach in the world for revealing how greatly I’m blessed—blessed not only to revel again in the outdoor joy that is Seacliff’s gift to all who love a beautiful beach, but blessed also by this: the far-fetched idea—dare I name it hope?—that the place may have plans for me, plans for something beyond my dreams to which, given my iffy romantic history, I would typically think, No way!
Mystery—tales of true love are thick with it. Dashed dreams, apparent loss, and then, at the bleakest eleventh hour, a happy—even miraculous—reconciliation. It is all so sappy, granted, but oh-so-thrillingly romantic! The story is a truth (or lie) I like. So I ask the all-seeing stars that with the faintest sparkle bid sweet dreams to the retiring sun, what is up with me and my first love? The winking firmament says less than Seacliff itself, though I admit the beach is taunting me with hints of what may be for Michael and me. On any day this is what I see: laughing couples hand in hand who stroll the beach at sunset; walkers and their romping dogs who frolic in the surf at dawn. Sunbathers, swimmers, fishers—the beach by light is peopled by the relaxed, the happy, the smiling. By night the otters and sea lions and, when the month is right, whales, add to the sea their wonder. Looks to me like a lovefest, all right. Hmm.
It would be a lie to say the togetherness that Michael and I share again is not an exact replay of our high school relationship. Never mind the thirty-five-year absence. When I splash and laugh and swim with—and kiss—the teenage boy who, at forty-nine, seems strangely unchanged, no time has passed. He’s more worldly, perhaps, more traveled; that he has his driver’s license now only adds to all the appeal he held for me at thirteen. The truth: Even decades lived apart, often at opposite ends of the earth (me: Paris; Michael: New Zealand) compact into minutes when the free, easy fun once shared with someone again turns up—undiluted, undiminished, undimmed—weird. Or is it a trick of the miraculous? My dear Seacliff, do tell! In my silent conversation, I ask the beach to tell its secret. But the still-warm sand stays silent and the prancing surf rolls in—without a word.
When Michael joins me we build a driftwood fire, he and I, and talk of nothing. We say simply everything in the fun it is to be at this beach after thirty-five years of—whatever, together. We look over the water to the lights of a faraway pier. Suddenly—and this is the truth—porpoises leap from the water, one and then another. Sandpipers scurry, pelicans swoop, and from off somewhere a mockingbird sings. The beach rolls in ecstasy around us, and at a strangely synchronized time, from points practically a planet apart (me: San Francisco; Michael: Indonesia), my first love and I each are drawn back to the same crescent of sea where a love that was new and young arrived once before. Could this be a love not done with us? It is only the beach that knows.
The sky streaks a palette of pinks as the sun sinks behind the horizon. The fog rushes in as if late for a date with destiny. It seems as eager to get back to this beach as weeks ago I was—Michael, too—each of us having felt some mysterious pull neither he, nor I, can explain. Snug by our driftwood fire, my first love and I revel in the moment—repeated. You rascal, Seacliff: the beach where magic happens.
Colette O’Connor
Reprinted by permission of Patrick Hardin. © 2005 Patrick Hardin.
Sands of Time
Memory . . . is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Oscar Wilde
Four hundred years ago, my ancestor Robert Cushman climbed out of a small craft called the Mayflower and stepped onto the shore of Massachusetts for the first time. And for almost one hundred years, with only a few lapses, my extended clan has returned to gather for family reunions each summer on those shores of Cape Cod. In the early 1900s, my parents took a train to the remote reaches of the cape. By the time my cousins and I came along, we traveled by car along paved roads.
Every family album contains photos of multiple generations of Robert’s descendants playing in the waves and building castles in the sand. Stories, too, have collected over the decades, and I’ve noticed some stories have gained a momentum of their own as they tumbled from generation to generation.
I remember playing with my Uncle Hervey’s children on the beach, enjoying the sun and listening to the waves wash the shore. One day when lunchtime drew near, my uncle asked his youngest daughter, Polly, to run back to the cottage and make sandwiches for the family. Sure enough, twenty minutes later, twelve-year-old Polly emerged carrying a tray of sandwiches. As everyone reached out for them, Hervey asked what type of sandwiches she had made.
“Peanut butter with bologna on raisin bread,” she replied.
Abruptly, hands withdrew from the tray and Hervey asked, “What made you choose that combination?”
“Because if you make good sandwiches, everyone eats them too fast,” Polly answered.
Most of her brothers and sisters found excuses that day to hike back to the cottage to make their own lunches.
Preparing meals at the beach was always a challenge, given the meager facilities in the rented cottages. Nevertheless, all of us continued to thrive in the fresh air and freedom of the holiday atmosphere. Year after year, we collected driftwood (as Uncle Leslie would say, “Business is picking up on the beach!”). We sunbathed until people warned us about UV rays and skin cancer. We played games of canasta, Monopoly, and Scrabble. We visited favorite landmarks like Highland Light.
And we grew older and taller. After a year apart the big question among the sixteen cousins was, “Who was now the tallest?”
My brother Robert (yes, named for our long-ago ancestor) and his cousin young Hervey stood back to back in the living room of the cottage.
“No fair, you’re standing on the carpet while I’m on the linoleum.”
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
The Souvenir
I remember it as if it were yesterday—my 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 City—that 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 gone—replaced 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 shared—lots 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
Summer Fun
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
6
INSIGHTS AND
LESSONS
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.
e. e. cummings
Daddy’s Love
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 raining—it was pouring—sun 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
Now and Then on the Beach
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
I take them home to call my own
With great care I polish and clean
And put the shells in a special place, to be admired and seen
From my years on the shore, my collection I treasure
I recall those walks, with extraordinary pleasure
And when my days on earth are complete
Eternally I will be on the most beautiful beach
As a shell I will delight in the heavenly sand
I will wait anxiously until I am in my Creator’s hand
Life’s lessons of joy and happiness, grief, and pain
Have left me old and scarred, broken and gray
The beauty of my youth and faded long since
My life though tough has been quite rich
Now I see coming a most comforting sig
ht
It’s my Maker, Creator choosing shells with delight
As I wait for my Creator to come
Shells are being chosen for the heavenly kingdom
All I can do is wait patiently and see
And pray he did not take shelling tips from me.
Paula Gunter-Best
Four Blocks Up
The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonders.
Ralph W. Sockman
My beach boys have come to my home at the shore for a visit. Grandson Ben is six years old, Jake nine. Both understand that they are coming to a special place and life will change dramatically because they are here. There will be a lot of sitting in rocking chairs, telling stories, not rushing about, and hours at the beach. They wave to me from the porch and their faces glisten with anticipation.
“Is it time to go to the beach?” Ben asks. It doesn’t matter if it’s summer and the town is filled with tourists, or winter and filled with snow. Ben asks the question anyway. For he knows four blocks up, it’s waiting. Like a promise never broken—his friend, the ocean, greets him with another friend: tons of sand. And perhaps even the little-boy friend he met a few months ago, running across the beach. Ben already holds his bucket and shovel. He is ready for another shore adventure.