Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Page 10

  Come four o’clock we would pack up, rush home to shower, fix our hair, eat supper, put on a snazzy new outfit, and head out for boardwalk adventures in the next town, Seaside Heights. Anticipated fun and excitement welcomed us every night. We never got bored because there was sooo much to do.

  Amusement rides: the merry-go-round, the whip, the roller coaster, the haunted house . . . and more.

  Games of chance: ring toss, dart the balloons, wheels of fortune to win humongous stuffed animals and tiny plastic trinkets, watergun horse races . . . and more.

  There were arcades, food stands, salt water taffy, cotton candy, and pizza by the slice.

  Not to mention the clams on the half-shell, fortune tellers, and the movie theatre (only one) packed on rainy days.

  Oh, to return to the days when life was simpler and safer, and when spirits soared. A time when the future meant tomorrow and the next day’s activities were the only major concern—even though we knew what they would be. What a gift it would be to take a trip back in time and revisit those lazy, hazy days of fun in the summer sun at the beach. To rendezvous with those who played such an important part of your life. Review the experiences that made you who you are today. A trip, if you will, that would take you back to yesterday’s future. A trip you would not change.

  Helen Colella

  Eternal Love Affair

  We do not remember days; we remember moments.

  Cesare Pavese

  Sand and the Albemarle Sound were the highlights of my summers. The topaz waters that seem to beckon one to swim and always capture your heart exist along the shore of the inner banks of the North Carolina coast. The Native Americans who lived near the waters and ate the grapes along the woodlands knew this land was special. And now I know it as well.

  The Legion Beach of the Albemarle Sound knows me better than I know myself. For at the end of a tiring day, when I walk along her shores, she caresses my feet—but even more, she caresses my tired soul. The gentle wind seems to push me along as I walk out on the old wooden pier that extends a good distance into the water. I dangle my feet into the cool waters and listen as the seagull calls out to the wind.

  And I am changed in this place—along the beach where I walked as a young girl. I gaze out at the waters where I water-skied at sixteen and smile as I remember the day I finally learned to let go of the rope when I fell. I smile as I remember all the times like Saturday night dances with sixties beach music. I laugh as I recall dancing the twist as the sounds of the music floated through the air.

  I remember the young men who walked this shore who went on to Vietnam. They were so young—so full of life— how they loved this beach! One Saturday they were jumping off the pier swimming far out, and the next week they were sent to war. Three of them never returned home—but this beach owned by the Veterans of Foreign Wars remembers them.

  The beach and I go way back; we have a friendship that I realize will always exist. I have changed ever so much, but our friendship has remained basically the same. Yes, the shoreline has eroded somewhat—and the pier has been rebuilt due to hurricanes a couple of times—but ah, my friend has managed to capture so many hearts and hold them forever. It always has been that way here at the Legion Beach.

  Yesterday, I took my daughter, my granddaughter, grandson, and great-granddaughter down here. We stood on the pier and listened to the symphony of seagulls calling out to the wind the way they always do, and we watched as the topaz waters lapped against the wooden pier. I looked at them—caught up in the splendor—and I smiled once again. It was happening to them, too. They were falling in love with this place just as I knew they would.

  My grandson splashed in the water as he and his sister enjoyed the day. Later, as we prepared to leave, I looked into the eyes of Kaylee, my great-granddaughter, and I whispered in her ear: “Darling Kaylee, someday you will come back here, and you will feel the love of all the generations before you—and you will feel the magic of this place as well. It is one of the greatest legacies I can leave you. It was left to me—and to all the kids who grew up in those special times.”

  My three-year-old grandson grabbed my hand as I slowly stood up. “Gramma, can we come back tomorrow?”

  I laughed as I said, “Why, yes, and for a lot of tomorrows I pray.”

  God had painted a majestic sunset in hues of violet, orange, and pink. I watched as it reflected off my children’s face. I stood there, and I knew that in this life of mine—and on this beach—I had touched the edge of splendor. I could not ask for more.

  Marsha Brickhouse Smith

  Honeymoon on the Beach

  The wedding was beautiful,

  the reception first rate,

  we left our family and friends,

  believing married life was great.

  Our honeymoon started,

  we arrived at the beach,

  our very first winter tan

  was now within our reach.

  We were given a nice room

  on the fifth floor,

  a beachside with terrace,

  who could want more?

  The sky was sunny,

  the temperature eighty-two,

  the breezes balmy,

  their pool was open too.

  To test the mattress,

  we laid on the bed,

  the headboard fell,

  putting a knot on my head.

  When the headache quit,

  I went for some air,

  out on our terrace

  and into a chair.

  As we sat quietly,

  watching the sea,

  the cheap chair collapsed

  out from under me.

  There I sat in horror

  on the narrow terrace floor.

  As my new husband stared,

  I scooted back through the door.

  My face was red,

  my legs were bruised,

  my poor rear end

  was really abused.

  With a straight face,

  my husband said,

  “Honey you look beat,

  want to lie on the bed?”

  I did as he suggested.

  He went for some ice.

  As he closed the door,

  I swear he laughed twice.

  We stayed inside

  the rest of the day,

  wondering what else

  would come our way.

  They always say

  things happen in threes,

  but I prayed to God,

  “No more, please.”

  We went to bed early,

  then in the middle of night,

  I went to the bathroom,

  oh Lord, what a sight.

  Ants were everywhere,

  on the floor and the walls,

  our toothbrushes covered,

  I ran crying to the hall.

  A frantic phone call

  to the front desk below.

  Hubby explained our problem,

  the girl said, “Ooh, no!”

  She sent an employee

  to inspect our room.

  While he was with us,

  he noticed my gloom.

  He asked “What is wrong,

  is it more than the ants?

  Isn’t your honeymoon,

  being filled with romance?”

  I showed him the knot

  in the middle of my forehead.

  He asked what caused such a thing.

  I said the headboard fell off the bed.

  I showed him the terrace,

  with the broken-down chair,

  which caused the bruises on my body,

  both here and there.

  A discreet phone call later,

  we were moved to the honeymoon suite.

  There was no added charge,

  now wasn’t that extra sweet?

  What started to be

  our honeymoon from hell

  turned out to be fantastic,

  the rest went quite
well.

  If you get a bruise on your bottom,

  and a large knot on your head,

  you can be moved from a nice double,

  to a suite with a king-size bed.

  This marriage has lasted,

  it’s our thirty-third year.

  After surviving our honeymoon,

  there was nothing left to fear.

  Pamela Gayle Smith

  “One of the top perks of marriage . . . there’s always someone to rub sunscreen on your back!”

  Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2004 Stephanie Piro.

  MASSACHUSETTS

  Wellfleet-Cape Cod

  MASSACHUSETTS

  Wellfleet-Cape Cod

  Seal Island

  Courage is being afraid but going on anyhow.

  Dan Rather

  Born and raised in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, my husband had never so much as dipped a toe in the ocean. And he had no interest in doing so. I was shocked when I learned that my twenty-eight-year-old future husband had no clue how to swim. Andrew had no interest in ever seeing the ocean, much less swimming in it. He was convinced that he’d either sink like a rock to the bottom, or he’d be attacked by a shark.

  “Honey, it’s virtually impossible for you to sink to the bottom of the ocean. You do have legs and arms you know. All you have to do is move them.”

  “I’m telling you I sink like a stone,” he continued. “My father tried to teach me how to swim in a pool when I was a kid.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I ended up on my back at the bottom of the pool. Just lying there and staring up at the surface. I couldn’t move.”

  I started to laugh, but he looked serious. My soon-to-be husband wanted nothing to do with the ocean and the magic it has to offer.

  I had to admit my heart was a little broken. I grew up in the Northeast, and my family spent each summer in a Maine beach cottage. Summer vacation was a reprieve from “real life” that I looked forward to each and every year of my childhood. My parents always fought a great deal and never seemed very happy together. However, our time at the beach seemed to make our family a little more cheerful. My parents fought less, and my older sister and I spent time together. At the beach, my family seemed closer; hence, Maine had always been special to me.

  Due to some difficult family circumstances, Andrew and I had planned to elope. Sitting together in front of the computer, we searched on the Internet for a special place to get married. We looked at the mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, with its beautiful chalets and open-air hot tubs. We then considered Florida.

  “How about Dollywood, Tennessee?” I said, laughing. It was as good a place as any at that point. Nothing seemed to click. I had a good idea where I’d like to get married, but didn’t think Andrew would go for it.

  The next morning the winter sun was strong and woke me far earlier than I had intended on a Sunday. From the den, I heard the almost silent sound of keys tapping.

  “Have you ever heard of Seal Island?” he asked as I entered the den.

  “Nope,” I said, sliding into the computer chair.

  “Well, you’ll be there by December eighteenth.”

  That was in three days. What was he talking about?

  Seal Island, I learned, was a little wisp of an island off the coast of Wells, Maine. Somehow he stumbled across it on the Internet, and he had already rented a cottage for us directly on the beach.

  “Honey, you have never wanted to go near the ocean,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

  “That I love you,” he said, kissing my nose. “Go get packed.”

  Two days later, I bought a dress off the rack, picked up two wedding rings, and let my parents know we’d be arriving. Long since divorced, both lived close to where we vacationed as a family. I suppose that it held good memories for all of us. Andrew and I boarded the flight from North Carolina to cold, snowy Maine just in time for our December twentieth wedding. My mother picked us up at the airport, and I noticed Andrew sniffing the air with some interest, like a dog catching a whiff of steak on the grill.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  “Salt air! Isn’t it great?” I said, excited to be back in Maine.

  He shrugged his shoulders unconvinced, but kissed my mother and off we went to find the cottage. I admit I was nervous. In our relationship I did all of the planning, and for good reason. My husband’s idea of a romantic date was combing through the DVD section of a discount store and grabbing a sandwich at a fast-food place.

  We pulled into the driveway of a small house in Wells. The cottage was white, and though not directly on the sand, was seated on a low cliff. Salty, misty air enveloped the house. Inside, the owners had decorated a Christmas tree, and it stood majestically in the center of a picture window that looked out onto the winter sea. Standing by the window, I squinted through my bad eyes and asked what was moving out on the water.

  “Seals,” Andrew said excitedly, wrapping his arms around my waist. “That must be Seal Island!”

  We stood together and watched seals dive and swim, then climb back onto the small island to huddle together. But we had to move along—we had a wedding to prepare for the following afternoon.

  We awoke the next morning to a sight to behold. The sea was stormy, with waves crashing against the rocks. Seagulls swooped overhead, their cries reminding me of those special summers as a child. A few hours later, we took our vows standing by the picture window. I wore a simple cream-colored dress, and my husband wore informal trousers and a shirt, set off by a royal blue tie with tiny snowflakes. The white cake was covered with red frosted roses, and sugar-encrusted snowflakes surrounded the base. A few family members took us to a quaint restaurant down the road, where we had our first meal as husband and wife. At the end of dinner, everyone left, leaving my new husband and me in our cottage by the sea. It was late afternoon, and snow started sifting from the sky. Thinking Andrew would be ready for a nap, I went to change into comfortable clothes. He followed me into the bedroom and took me by the hand, leading me to the front door of the cottage. “Wait here,” he said, returning a moment later to hand me my small bridal bouquet of red roses. My husband led me outdoors down a winding rustic path to the ocean. I was in my wedding dress and heels still. Was he crazy?

  Reading my thoughts, he picked me up and carried me over the rocks to where a small patch of sand waited, not yet filled with snow. I watched him as he took off his nice shoes, and then his socks. “Andrew, it’s snowing. . . . It’s freezing,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “I never thought I would want to put my feet in the ocean,” he said, “much less in twenty-degree weather, but this is no ordinary day.”

  And there in front of me was my new husband. Six-feet-four inches, his pants rolled up to his calves, laughing like a child and splashing in the sea. The seals were still cavorting on their island, and it felt like the world was celebrating with us. I tossed my bouquet into the water, imagining all of the memories to come.

  Heather Cook Lindsay

  “It’s the ocean—for you.”

  Reprinted by permission of Patrick Hardin. © 1995 Patrick Hardin.

  Time and Tides

  Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.

  From the television show The Wonder Years

  Today my eyes blur with tears as I look at the photographs of my toddler grandchildren on a special Cape Cod beach last summer. Kira, wearing a large green sunbonnet pushed back by the breeze, waves a shovel in one hand and carries her pail in the other, while Luke, water lapping over his toes, studiously sorts shells and stones. Michele, the proud mom, soaks in the sun and the moment from a blanket nearby, while out in the bay, Dana, my younger daughter, sails her beloved Bonito racing skiff, red and white sail tilted, heeling against the wind.

  I know I am not seeing clearly. Isn’t this really a picture of Michele and Dana at the age
s of Luke and Kira, shoveling and splashing on this same beach? Am I not the woman sitting on that same blanket with my husband, savoring that special sense of coming home that children have with the beach?

  Back in the sixties, when we first went to Eastham, our old black and white Plymouth was just big enough to hold the requisite suitcases, books, pails, shovels, inflatable tubes, teddy bears, groceries, sheets, and towels that we would need for a week in a small rental cottage at the cape. Minutes after we arrived that first summer, we lost sight of Dana while we were unloading the car after our long six-hour trip from New York. Like a homing pigeon, she instinctively headed toward that beach on the bay, and she has returned each summer since. Now I’m the only one in the family who has never gone back.

  There was no television in that small rental cottage. Instead, each morning the beach helped us create a new story for that day. Is the tide in or out? What time can we swim? Are the clouds and the wind saying we can sail this afternoon? When it’s low tide, can we walk out to the old target ship far out on the bay? If it’s raining, can we go to the Visitor Center at the National Seashore? Or can we just read and play Monopoly in our small cottage? Time at the beach took on a new dimension. Clocks were irrelevant. Instead, the tides, the sunsets, and the sunrises guided the rhythm of our days.

  As we returned each year to that same cottage, the beach brought returning friends for the children as well. Encyclopedia Brown, as they named him, was a thin, wiry, bespectacled little boy, who each morning excitedly told us about his daily discovery of a sand shark or a horseshoe crab, or sadly, one day, some pilot whales that stranded themselves on our beach. Tall and quiet Walter from Massachusetts came regularly to our blanket with a deck of cards in hand and waited for Michele to come in from her swim so they could play several rounds of Michigan Rummy. Susan from Connecticut was a lively companion for Dana as they swam off the dock or raced their sailboats toward the horizon.

  Some evenings meant a bonfire on the beach; other evenings meant early bedtime after a full day of sun and sand and a wonderful, fresh clam chowder dinner. At least one night during our vacation we had an inhibition-shattering, succulent lobster dinner, served on oil cloth–covered tables at the Lobster Hutt in Wellfleet. Afterward we washed butter-soaked hands in conveniently placed sinks in each corner of the room and headed to Orleans for enormous hot fudge sundaes at Dairy Queen.