Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (14 page)
“I really only get to read at the beach!”
Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro.
©
2005 Stephanie Piro.
T
he more tranquil a man becomes, the
greater is his success, his influence, his
power for good. Calmness of mind is one of
the beautiful jewels of wisdom.
James Allen
The beach still maintains a certain fascination for me, since my days growing up in Washington, D.C. The family would head down to Atlantic City in the days before it became the gambling Mecca it is today. Walking the boardwalk as a child and sharing a common sense of connectedness with other beach lovers set the standard for my love of the sand and ocean.
Early on in my marriage, my husband and I bought a time-share in the preconstruction stage at North Myrtle Beach. This haven quickly became a favorite of ours. My husband and I would enjoy all the amenities of Myrtle Beach and then retreat back to the quiet peacefulness of North Myrtle Beach's surf and sand. My birthday was still several months away when my husband asked, “Have you decided what you want to do for your birthday?” I became quiet as I thought about the impending day. Society has taught women not to celebrate each year of life, but to hide the increasing years behind a bland smile and denial. I was about to turn the big forty. With a measure of resolve I stated, “I haven't really given it any thought.”
My husband gave me that all-knowing look of his, which was actually quite infuriating at times, and said, “How about the beach?”
I shrugged my shoulders thinking,
Why not?
I loved the beach, and so did the boys. I quickly agreed to his suggestion with one stipulation: At midnight the day my fortieth birthday rolled in, I wanted to be on the beach.
As the months turned into weeks, I had some well-meaning friends who could not help indulging in the standard over-the-hill jokes and the “Lordy, Lordy, Bernetta is Forty” signs. So much so that the last thing I wanted to do was to celebrate the day at the beach. I made excuses about why we should not go and assured my husband, Charles, that we would get down to the beach later in the summer. In truth, I enjoyed my beach time too much to start to associate it with a day that I was dreading. Throughout the sixteen years of our marriage, my husband has learned that the best way to handle a situation that I am trying to avoid is to meet it and me head on. Charles decided that if the trip was going to happen, he would have to pack and ignore my protest.
When the Friday before my birthday arrived, he announced confidently, “The boys are out of school, you have the day off, and we are spending the weekend at the beach.”
Before I could utter the protest that lodged in my throat, he added, “I invited your mother to come.” Not only was the traitor going to force me to walk into my forties hollering and screaming, but he had enlisted the help of my mother to do it. With a reserved shrug I got up and prepared to endure a weekend of false happiness for the sake of those whom I loved.
As we checked into our resort, I wandered over to the window and its view of the beach. As I stood watching the water lap against the sand, a calm that had eluded me over the past few months began to invade my body. I was so absorbed by the calming image that I did not at first hear Charles say, “Coming, hon?” Once inside our two-bedroom, oceanfront accommodations, I walked to the sliding glass door in the master bedroom and opened it so that I could hear the roar of the ocean. I had a spring in my step as I began to unpack. And then there was the singing, which I should never do unless alone in the shower. But my family did not seem to mind as I broke out into a version of Stevie Wonder's “Happy Birthday.”
After dinner at a local restaurant we walked down the beach, and for the first time that I can remember since being an adult, my sixty-five-year-old mother took her shoes off and walked down the beach, allowing the ocean water to lap around her feet and ankles. That moment alone was well worth the drive. Not only had relaxing at the beach managed to eliminate a lot of my self-induced stress, but my mother smiled and just enjoyed herself by feeling alive and healthy.
Charles and I walked along the beach holding hands as the boys played and walked ahead of us. As we walked, day began to turn to dusk. We stopped our trek to stand and look at the vastness of the ocean as the sun began to set beyond the horizon. My thoughts drifted to other people around the world, standing, looking out at the same vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. In that moment I felt a connectedness to the universe that can only be described as feeling like God was standing there reaching out to me and showing me the possibilities of grace and mercy bornâgetting another year older. For no apparent reason I started to cry, not tears of sorrow, but of joy. I had been blessed with forty years of life, and I found myself praying for forty more.
Charles and I walked the boys and Mom back to the resort, and at 11:30 PM we rode the elevator down to the ground floor. We stepped out onto the beach and started to walk in the direction of some lights further down the beach. As the time slowly ticked toward midnight, as if on cue, someone started to shoot off fireworks. Charles and I stood watching as the nighttime sky was infused with shades of blue, pink, red, and yellow. Softly in my ear at the stroke of midnight Charles whispered to me, “Happy birthday.” Smiling I said, “Yes, it will be.”
We continue to visit the beach several times throughout the year. But there has not been another time when we walked on the beach at midnight to celebrate my birthday. I am saving that for the decade milestones to come.
Bernetta Thorne-Williams
O
ur life is frittered away by detail. Simplify,
simplify.
Henry David Thoreau
My love affair with the Jersey Shore has spanned over half a centuryâever since my mother brought me here. One look and that is all it took to create a lifetime passion. I have no control over my feelings. It is as if I am possessed by the ocean, the beaches, the boardwalk, the feeling of oneness that comes over me. We are soul mates.
It began when I was a youngster, when we rented a room in a boardinghouse in New Jersey for whatever days or weeks we could afford. We lived in a small apartment in the winter, and there was little money for luxuries. But the shore was another matter. For my mother, it became a necessity. She could endure anything life tossed her way in the winter as long as there was the Jersey Shore to anticipate in the summer. When my father had a problem with his nerves because he lost his job, the doctor told him, “Go to the beach. Swim in the ocean. It will cure you.” And it did.
Summertime meant living by the ocean, in whatever way we could, even if it was one room for four people. It did not matter. We slept on beds, cots, and floorsâjust to hear the sound of the waves or feel the ocean as it swept over us. Nothing could match the magic of a few weeks at the shore.
We would always stay in a boardinghouse. Everyone shared a refrigerator and a cupboard. There was usually an argument going on about a missing can of soup or a grapefruit. Everyone knew what everyone was eating, and when they had a fight with their husband or wife, we could hear their discussions right through the walls. We shared bathrooms and showers, and privacy was left behind in our winter residences.
The owner of the boardinghouse was the boss, and we listened. If she locked the front and back doors after midnight and we arrived late, we had to knock. If any of us missed curfew, we had to stand for a very long time until the door opened, accompanied by a long lecture. But none of us minded the restrictions, for once the day began, we were barefoot and free, running the beaches as far as we dared. It was difficult to explain to anyone who had not experienced shore living: why we had to be there, why we had to abandon shoes and schedules and dive into sandy beds and eat sandwiches that never tasted better, even with sand scattered throughout them.
We would do without much in the winter to be able to afford a few sweet days of ecstasy in the summer as we sat on porches rocking, trading stories, while love was everywhere, just waiting for discovery. As a teenager, I felt it as soon as my feet touched the beach. Romance was in each grain of sand: no matter how young or old; if new or in the memory; holding hands or each other. Love thrived by the sea.
Years later, I, too, would rent a room in a summer boardinghouse as my mother did. I had two young children, a commuting husband, and a big house waiting for me at home. But once summer beckoned, nothing could stop me. I fled to the New Jersey shore. For only there I captured what I had lost during the winter. Only there could my soul burst free.
I now live year-round in a house four blocks from the ocean in New Jersey. I know that every morning if I walk up to the boardwalk, the ocean will not disappoint me and disappear. I can count on its existence, its loyalty, and its commitment. And just as I knew in the boardinghouse years ago, I know the shore will always be an essential part of my life. The love affair continues.
I confess. I shall not love like this again.
Harriet May Savitz
Today the ocean roars, bursts upon the old stone jetties uncovered by the relentless waves, and pounds the sand with an exhilarating force. Seagulls swoop down with raucous cries, squabbling over the breakfast delivered up by the tide.
Tomorrow the sea may be calm, splashing softly upon the shoreline and receding with a gentle whisper over the sand and pebbles. The gulls may let out an occasional squawk as they slowly circle, looking like a gray and white mobile in a languorous breeze.
I am blessed to live near the beach and to get my daily exercise. I enjoy walking on the boardwalk. The sounds of the sea are rhythmic and soothing, so I've developed the habit of listening as well as looking while I walk.
I puff along, arms swinging, boards trembling beneath my feet, or occasionally stepping down and strolling close to the water's edge, where lapping waves pack the sand firm enough for a steady pace. Walking alongside the ocean is a delight offering an ever-changing vista and the comforting sounds of the sea.
This has helped me to realize that so often I don't think of listening in the same way as I think of using my other senses, and maybe this is true of most of us. At the beach we see the water, sparkling with sunny sprinkles or glittering with a silvery path of moonlight. We can smell the salt water and fishy scent of the ocean and feel on our skin the breeze ruffling the current washing in toward the shore. And if we can close out the everyday noises so often surrounding us, we can hear in the watery to and fro of the tides the music of the sea.
The sounds are all part of the enjoyment of walking, so there are no earphones for me. I listen to tapes, CDs, and the radio at home and inmy car. While strolling I prefer the sounds of nature and the sounds of the world around me.
Today the sea roared; tomorrow it may whisper. I'll be walking, and I'll be listening.
Carolyn Mott Ford
M
ay you live all the days of your life.
Irish blessing, also attributed to Jonathan Swift
For us, it was a treasure chest. The large glass jar sat in the corner of our bedroom, waiting for the next time we would scoop out handfuls of pennies to purchase our picnic for the beach.
“I think I have enough,” David said as he put the last few coins in the wrapper.
“I'm ready if you are,” I called back as I grabbed the beach towels and headed for the car.
A bucket of fried chicken with all the trimmings was our weekly feast at the nearby Siesta Key beach. We looked forward to watching the amazing sunset that filled the sky with vivid splashes of color as if an artist had dipped his brush in his palette and streaked it across the horizon.
This was a place of comfort and encouragement for us, as well as a place of beauty. It had been several months since David had lost his job with no prospects in sight. Life began to seem futile as our finances slowly drained away. Yet our weekly vigil at the beach always seemed to restore a sense of hope as we marveled at God's creation before us. This week was no different than those beforeâ no response to the hundreds of resumes mailed out and the constant rejection of “you're overqualified” from the local newspaper ads. Yet knowing that God controlled the ebb and flow of the tides gave us confidence that everything in our lives was under his control as well.
Throwing the last chicken bone in the air for the swooping seagulls, we strolled toward the ocean's edge. Walking hand in hand, the tranquility of the lapping water swirling around our toes began the process of healing our spirits. A gentle breeze caressed our faces as the sun began its dip into the sea.
“Where else could you possibly want to be?” David whispered, wrapping his arms around me as we stopped to watch the sun's descent. “If we didn't even have a penny to our name, we have all the riches one could hope for right hereâyou and me, the sunset and the sea.”
Karen R. Kilby
Living five miles from the Jersey Shore affords us the pleasure of sitting on the boardwalk a few days a week. My husband and I find ourselves a bench with a wonderful view of the clear sky and rolling waves kissing the shore. I am softly humming to one of the 921 songs on my iPod while my husband is staring into oblivion, imagining he hit the Lotto. If he ever won he told me he wouldn't let me know because I would give too much away to family and friends. He would still pretend to go to work so that I wouldn't catch on that we were rich. He forgets that I know the numbers he's been playing for the past thirty-odd years. But this is his time to relax. So I let him have his little fantasy.