Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (6 page)
“Wanna play Frisbee?” I'd ask Dad.
“Dig me a hole, Mommy?” Billy would chirp.
The answers were always yesâyes 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 standâor just sitting under an umbrella 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 lifeâa 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 enjoyâ 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 thenâ just for the dayâwe 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 usâthe 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 littleâand 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 dayâand 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.
H
appiness 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 rememberâ 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
G
uard well your spare moments. They are
like uncut diamonds.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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.
We also built intricate sand castles along the water's edge with protective walls to keep the water away from our castle. As the tide came in, we built bigger protective walls, but we always lost the battle. It didn't matter. We just moved on to another game.
The beach also provided us with a free sauna. It was the sun-warmed sand to flop on and heat up a body made cold by the ocean. In the process it changed those wrinkled fingers back to normal and shed the body of all the goose bumps collected from an hour of energized horseplay in the ocean. It turned blue lips pink again, a signal that it was time to leave the warmth of the sand, run to my ocean, and dive in. Experience guided us so that we reached the right speed, choose our perfect wave, and dove over it with the grace and composure of a carefree dolphin.
Finally, it was a chance for me to attack my buddies in the water, without making it obvious, by going beneath the surface and pulling them under and then swimming away. The best game of all was the piggyback fights in waist-high water with as many kids as were willing to risk it. We would attack the enemy and dethrone the opponent from the shoulders of his carrier. The last team standing was the tired victor.
Fun, but dangerous, was skimming. One would throw a round, thin board along the surface of extremely shallow water as it reached the beach. Jumping on the board we would try to maintain our standing position as we skimmed along the surface of the water. If you lost your balance or if the front edge of the board dug in the sand you would be sent flying totally out of control. It was worth the challenge and the danger.