The kid’s backseat bickering begins before we even make it down the driveway. It continues as we lug our gear across a Sahara-wide strip of sole-searing sand. We wince in pain as we try to sidestep the shrapnel of broken shells along the way. The schlep seems endless as we ritually wander and stop—at least three times—until we’re sure that we’ve found just the right spot.
It’s only after we’ve fully unloaded and arranged our chairs in perfect alignment with the sun that we realize that the tide is actually coming in. My husband does not look amused as we frantically chase scattered flip-flops that have been swept away by a small tsunami, and we move yet again—back to where we stopped in the first place.
After fighting gusts of gale force winds, we take a moment to bask in the glory of getting our rickety umbrella planted upright and thankfully without impaling any neighboring sunbathers. Then comes a heated Greco-Roman wrestling match to get the children covered with their sunscreen, which by their protests you’d think was really acid.
My husband, with a solar-induced migraine, quickly tires of a minefield-like game I call “Which bikini-clad body on the beach most closely resembles mine?” Then we begin the losing battle of trying to keep track of all our pails, shovels, and stolen hotel towels—most of which are already half buried.
It’s only a matter of time before the kids begin a chorus of complaints about the sand in their eyes and the grit between their teeth or somewhere else in their swimsuits. I wonder if I hold a seashell to my ear, would I hear the sound of a child whining?
But eventually we settle in and find our rhythm with the ebb and flow of the sea. The boys excitedly start digging their way to China with some newfound “best friends”—sans parental participation—and my daughter discovers the joys of a good beach read. Even my husband and I are able to unwind with a quiet conversation in complete and uninterrupted sentences.
Before we know it, the air starts to cool as the sun calls it a day. We pack up and head home. This time the backseat is quiet as my sleepy beach bums, with their sun-kissed skin and sandy smiles, drift off dreaming about our next trip to the shore.
At last . . . a picture-perfect day at the beach.
Audrey D. Mark
Five Minutes to Fear
We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.
Thornton Wilder
Our families camped together once a month, so when the Fourth of July fell on our scheduled weekend, we never gave it a thought not to proceed with our plans. The drive to Rehoboth Beach took six hours, counting four bathroom stops for three children and two women and two men who swore they would lay off the water.
The campsite was five miles from the pristine shoreline and boardwalk. We couldn’t wait to dig our toes into the warm sand. Our daughter was seven at the time and our friends’ daughters were eight and three. We packed enough toys, beach towels, and tanning lotion to last three weekends.
After pitching our tents and setting up camp, the seven of us piled into our cars and began the hunt for parking spaces closest to the water so that the men would not have to resort to camel-like behavior when hauling our supplies to the beach.
We staked our claim on the remaining ten feet of sand and sent the children to the ocean’s edge. Our striped towels and white flesh blended with the thousands of other sun worshipers. Music blared from cranked-up radios while Frisbees whizzed overhead. Fair-haired recruits in muscle shirts hawked their ice cream sandwiches and cold soda while I poured lukewarm Kool-Aid.
From where I reclined, I had a clear view of the three girls splashing near the water. They chased the waves and tunneled into the wet sand, building castle after castle. It took extreme persuasion to convince them to relinquish the sea long enough to split soggy sandwiches with us. Periodically, the men would drop their books and leap into an incoming wave while capturing an unsuspecting child. I could only imagine the giggles above the beach clatter.
After hours of play—and sunburned feet—we motioned for the girls to join us. I packed the towels and lotion while my best friend packed the toys and food. We each had our responsibilities but neglected the most important one. My daughter and her eldest daughter arrived by our side. Their youngest girl didn’t.
We locked eyes. Our previously orderly world shrunk to the beach and the thousands of people strewn around us. Instinct jolted us into action. We screamed her name and pushed past bathers and tanners, frantic to find a missing child in a green bathing suit. Each second ticked by as though specifically designed to torment us.
“Angela!” My head snapped as the perfect picture of a mother and daughter reuniting exploded in my vision. I wanted to fall to the ground and weep amid the mass of strangers who had been unsuspecting participants in a drama unfolding before them.
Since that day, I’ve relived those five minutes of fear at Rehoboth Beach too many times. I relived them each time my daughter hid from me behind a store fixture or ventured out alone in the car after passing her driver’s test. I relived them when she was late returning home from dates and when she married and moved to a city far from my reach.
Years later, we relocated to Florida, where once a month we frequent the swarming beaches of Daytona. My husband and I rent beach chairs and an umbrella and stake our claim along with the other beach lovers hoping for a relaxing time in the sun. Invariably, I spy a child dropping his bucket to search for his own cluster of recognizable faces. My heart freezes until I witness the mother wrapping her arms around him again. Only then do I breathe and rejoin the masses.
Terri Tiffany
“I’m keeping an eye on my mom.
I don’t want her to lose me.”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.
Cycle of (Beach) Life
Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.
Kahlil Gibran
Every summer it was the same. Sundays, Mom was on the deck early, feeling the air and looking toward the mile-distant Southern California beach. “The fog’s burning off!” she’d conclude—if we were lucky. Then she’d say the magic words.
“I think it’s turning into a beach day.”
My little brother Billy would shout “Yea!” and then he’d dance around in the hall. I’d head to my room, smiling, to put on my bathing suit. We both knew that those magic words meant no chores, no phones ringing, no jobs—in fact, no responsibilities at all. The only certainty behind the words was that we’d have fun. For this afternoon only, we would be the exclusive focus of Mom’s and Dad’s attention.
During beach days, family ruled.
Mom and Dad were a young couple, dark-haired and athletic, when they got their priorities in order. Just for the day, they learned to turn their backs on windows that needed cleaning and a lawn that needed mowing. They’d conveniently forget that the car hadn’t been washed in a month. If the weather beckoned, it was more important to them to assemble, drive, and trundle everything down to the coast like pack mules, arms overflowing with sun lotion and surf-mats and water bottles. Sometimes they’d have to make two trips. Then they’d set up umbrellas and beach chairs and towels.
As kids, neither Billy nor I lent a serious helping hand. During the packing process, we were too excited. And once we were down there, we’d be too busy gaping at the ocean, and all that sand, piled like the sweetest sugar at our feet.
“Wanna play Frisbee?” I’d ask Dad.
“Dig me a hole, Mommy?” Billy would chirp.
The answers were always yes—yes to these requests and a hundred more, as attested to by my best childhood memories: Dad riding the waves with us on blow-up surfmats; Mom, taking us on long, leisurely walks in search of beach glass and sand crabs; long games of Frisbee and smash-ball at water’s edge; ambitious sand castles, complete with moats and drawbridges, their walls studded with shells; fast-food treats from the snack stand—or just sitting under an umbre
lla talking. Even into the teen years, our parent/child conversations were always easier at the beach, with the sun smiling down and a million waves keeping a slow, calming drumbeat in the background.
These were the things our parents did with us, every July and August.
The years passed. I got married, and my wife and I moved to Northern California. During summers Mom and Dad would call us on Sunday evenings with enthusiastically told stories: “The water temperature was seventy-four degrees!” or “A big sea turtle washed up on the sand today!” I pictured myself with the magain, having shore-side adventures. Gradually I realized I was missing some unnamed but vital part of my life—a lost piece made not only of tumbling surf and the feeling of warm sand under my feet, but family as well.
By the time we had our first child, there was nothing else for it: we moved back to Southern California. A few years later, Billy and his wife and kids returned to the area from out of state. When the weather warmed up, we slipped right into tradition. Our wives learned to forsake summer Sunday projects and just go along with it. Now there was a fresh generation for Mom and Dad to enjoy— new little kids to bury up to the necks in the sand, and teach to throw Frisbees, and tow around on body boards. Our son, daughter, and all three nieces reaped the benefits as well: there’s no better way to get to know your grandparents than spending entire days with them, playing in the sun.
Flash ahead a couple of decades.
I’m in my fifties now, and our kids are grown. Dad’s in his early eighties, and Mom’s not far behind. Both have snow-white hair. Both are a little shaky on their feet; in fact, Mom walks with a cane. But two months a year, we can count on a phone call, early Sunday morning.
“It’s a little foggy on the coast,” Mom says. “But it’s going to burn off. I can tell. It’s going to be a great beach day.”
They’re still magic words. They make my wife and I look at the papers and junk mail that have piled up on the counters. We glance at the shopping list on the fridge and the vacuum, standing neglected in the corner. And then— just for the day—we turn our backs on it all and drive down to meet them.
My wife and I do most of the work now. We play the pack mules, carrying down their chairs, umbrella, and towels, along with our own stuff. Dad’s job is to steady Mom as she ambles along (she’s doing better now with her walking: two years back, we had to push her to the shore all season in a special, fat-tired beach wheelchair). Sometimes Billy joins us, and sometimes a grandkid or two.
Mom and Dad don’t ride the waves or take shell-seeking walks anymore. But there’s no complaining. They still eat beach-stand hamburgers, soak in the sights, and talk, their toes shoved into the sand.
The old cues surround us—the coconut smell of sun-block, the hiss and crash of the waves, the cry of gulls. Everything seems timeless, and everyone ageless. The happy sounds of nearby kids skipping and digging and splashing bring back the sounds of our children when they were little—and us, not so long before that.
“Shall we hit the smash-ball?” Dad will suggest.
“Would someone help me up so I can feel the water?” Mom asks.
We wouldn’t think of turning them down. After all, it’s a beach day—and that means family rules.
Craig A. Strickland
“I need a lot of stuff at the beach.”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.
Family Time
Happiness often sneaks through a door you didn’t know you left open.
John Barrymore
“Let’s take the kids to Sanibel Island this spring.” Just like that, my husband, who needs a much-deserved getaway from the pressures of work (and cold, damp Ohio winters), begins to plan our first family beach vacation.
“That was such a relaxing place. Remember all of the shells that we found?” Smiling at my husband, my heart takes me back over the causeway bridge from Fort Myers, where several years earlier the two of us enjoyed a week at the beach.
The two of us ate late, leisurely breakfasts in our little pink cottage overlooking the Gulf. The two of us lazily read novels in our beach chairs, moving only to reapply our Coppertone or avoid the incoming tide. The two of us, all aglow from the Florida sun, walked hand in hand for miles along the shore.
“Mmm . . . Honey, it would be so great to go back there.” But as I look around my kitchen, past the piles of Clifford the Big Red Dog books to the crayons, stickers, and coloring books strewn across our island countertop, I realize that life is different now. With two little girls in tow, a beach vacation would be anything but relaxing.
“I’ll go online and see if there is someplace for us to stay during the kids’ break from school.”
“Mmm . . . okay,” I murmur, trying to sound noncommittal. “We might need something bigger this time, though. I don’t think a little cottage will be roomy enough for the girls and all their gear.”
Visions of suitcases bursting at the seams with swim diapers, wipes, and baby sunblock cloud my enthusiasm. Will our bags even fit all the clothes we will need for seven days? With sand in everything, the girls will need more than one outfit per day. And what about the laundry? Potty accidents and the inevitable spilled milk will create a very real need for a good washer and dryer. So much for my quaint beach cottage.
Begrudgingly, I agree to a family-size condo, complete with laundry facilities and kitchenette. Our girls, aware of upcoming adventure, are abuzz with excitement. Like little bees, they flutter about the house, donning new sun hats and flip-flops. “We are going to build big sand castles with Daddy!” my youngest beachcomber shouts, nearly hitting me with an exuberant swing of her new blue sand pail. “Can we go swimming in the ocean every day?”
Smiling, I put on a happy face, despite a nagging headache. Board games (in case of rain), stuffed animals, and nighttime storybooks are jammed into already overstuffed bags. Picking up one of my chick-lit novels, I shake my head and return it to my nightstand. This is a family vacation; I guess those lazy days of beachside reading are a thing of the past.
Rays from the southwest Florida sun soon welcome us to our beach home. Sanibel Island is all that I remember— palm fronds waving in the warm breeze along miles and miles of nothing but cool, white sand. Opening the sliding glass doors of our condo, I inhale the salty sea air. Waves roar alongside families playing on the sand. Maybe I should give beach life a chance. Shedding our clothes, we change into swim attire before hastily making our way to the sandy shore.
While we walk along the beach, a few sharp surprises underfoot remind me that Sanibel is nicknamed “Shell Island.” “Mama, here is a pretty pink one,” my three-year-old marvels as she plink, plinks shell after shell into her blue bucket. Bent over in the famous “Sanibel Stoop” position, we scoop nets into the cool blue water, bringing in colorful treasures for our collection.
Just like that, we develop an island rhythm, a routine that involves heading to the beach each morning after breakfast, just in time to discover the treasures of low tide: bountiful shells and egg casings left behind by mollusks. After my husband helps the kids create the world’s biggest sandcastle, complete with a water-filled moat, the girls play contentedly for hours, happy to have a playhouse for their “Little People” dolls. With time to myself, I recline in my beach chair and begin a romance novel. (Who knew that our condo would have a bookshelf full of good beach reads?) Time, measured only by the ebb and flow of the tides, seems of little importance. We head inside only for a quick sandwich; often we pack a cooler so we can lunch right on the sand.
Riding boogie boards in the water, my girls squeal in delight as they ride the tides into shore. “Mama! Mama! Guess what?” My six-year-old, all drippy from her swim, comes running toward my beach chair. “We saw a dolphin jump right out of the water! Come quick so you can see it!”
Jumping up, I grab each of my daughters’ hands and run toward the water. Sure enough, another dolphin rises above the crashing waves, putting on quite a show just for
us. “Cool!” my girls shout, obviously more than a little excited.
Squeezing my daughters’ hands, I look up to see my husband, his arm around my shoulder, grinning ear-to-ear. “Let’s take a little walk along the beach,” he suggests. “Maybe we can see more dolphins. Girls, don’t forget your shell nets and pails.”
As the four of us walk hand in hand along the shore, sand seeping between our toes, I spot a row of small pink cottages. “Look, there is where it all began,” I smile, remembering that romantic beach vacation from years past.
“Yeah, but we have so much more now,” my husband muses, his arms heavy laden with shell-filled pails that the girls have tired of carrying.
Laughing, I realize that we indeed do have so much more: more fun, more laughter, and a family with whom to share our love of the beach.
Stefanie Wass
2
SUNRISE/SUNSET:
CREATING SPECIAL
MOMENTS
Guard well your spare moments. They are like uncut diamonds.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
One More Wave
I wasn’t thrown out of the house as a kid, but during the lazy days of summer you wouldn’t find me at home. I lived on the beach. Nothing could have been better. The beach was everything good: freedom from the chores of daily existence; warm, gentle breezes; waves to ride back to the beach; sand to play games in; and seclusion, in the midst of a crowd, that promoted freedom of the mind, body, and spirit. The beaches were much smaller when I was a kid, so they were more crowded than today. That didn’t matter. We still played running bases with a tennis ball and tried to tag the runner out before he reached base. Errant throws usually ended up on a sunbather’s blanket, sometimes hitting the person, but that wasn’t my problem. I had to retrieve the ball, and in my haste to do so, I would deposit unwanted sand on their blanket and further annoy the sun worshiper. If I got the base runner out, it was worth the verbal abuse. If the sunbather came after us we hightailed it down to the water, jumped in, and had a catch skimming the ball along the surface of the water.