The ocean
The first time I remember seeing the ocean I was either 7 or 10; I don't remember what year it was, just that it was a family reunion on my dad's side. We'd arrived at the house we'd rented in Duck or Kitty Hawk or the Outer Banks in the evening, after a long, hot, stressful drive through traffic. I'd been reunited with my cousin Michaela, and we had one wish: to go to the beach. We could smell and taste the brine and hear the surf, the salt and noise carried through the seasoned wood of the house by a quick breeze, but couldn't see or feel it.
After begging and pleading and cajoling any number of older relatives, we finally convinced our Uncle Bob to supervise our walk three blocks away over sandy asphalt, through grassy dunes, and finally onto the beach.
It was everything we'd ever dreamed of. We rolled up our shorts and ran in and out of the waves and shrieked and got soaked when the waves came up stronger or faster or further than we'd expected. The sun was setting, and soon our hero Uncle Bob declared that it was about time to head back to the warmth and brightness of the rest of our family.
We spent most of the rest of that week on the beach, coming out of the water and sand only long enough to devour some of Aunt Peg's zucchini bread or to be coaxed into another layer of the highest SPF sunscreen we could find (which somehow never kept our fair European skin from burning). It was about the same as every family reunion that I can remember and probably the ones I can't.
But somehow, when I'm shuffling through my memories of the ocean, this one stands out. It wasn't the first or the last or the most important time I'd seen the ocean, but somehow it all comes back to that evening with Michaela, chasing the edge of the water with the hems of our shorts in our hands.
After begging and pleading and cajoling any number of older relatives, we finally convinced our Uncle Bob to supervise our walk three blocks away over sandy asphalt, through grassy dunes, and finally onto the beach.
It was everything we'd ever dreamed of. We rolled up our shorts and ran in and out of the waves and shrieked and got soaked when the waves came up stronger or faster or further than we'd expected. The sun was setting, and soon our hero Uncle Bob declared that it was about time to head back to the warmth and brightness of the rest of our family.
We spent most of the rest of that week on the beach, coming out of the water and sand only long enough to devour some of Aunt Peg's zucchini bread or to be coaxed into another layer of the highest SPF sunscreen we could find (which somehow never kept our fair European skin from burning). It was about the same as every family reunion that I can remember and probably the ones I can't.
But somehow, when I'm shuffling through my memories of the ocean, this one stands out. It wasn't the first or the last or the most important time I'd seen the ocean, but somehow it all comes back to that evening with Michaela, chasing the edge of the water with the hems of our shorts in our hands.