Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Page 12

  “You have to hike up that path into the woods. It’s a communal bathroom and shower,” Paul informed me. Quickly realizing this was not good, he added, “I’ll take her.”

  So much for spending seven days on the beach soaking up the sun. So far all I had managed to soak up was half of Lake Winnepausaukee.

  The rain lasted for three days. The sun came out. We still trudged through the mud wherever we had to go. It takes forever for mud to dry under all the towering pine trees. Paul very patiently coaxed me out of my mood. He has a talent for doing that. Mom carried on like a trouper. The kids had activities to do during the morning. Mom watched them during naptime. Paul introduced me to sailing; I think it’s the thing he loves most in the world after the kids and me.

  On Thursday, Doc Anderson approached our table at dinner. He presented my mother with a soggy, muddy mass that vaguely resembled her lost shoe.

  Friday was water carnival day with canoe competitions and games for the kids and adults. Paul, twenty-eight years old, revisited his childhood in the games. He joined the men in all the competitions and canoe wars. He took his stint on the log and water wrestled his way to King of the Log.

  Friday night was show night. All the little kids paraded out on the stage to show off the skits they had learned at camp. Amateur adult performers regaled us with bad jokes and even worse singing. The evening ended with the camp song. My tone-deaf husband sang at the top of his lungs, joined by his daughter who had learned the song at camp.

  Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny as we boarded the launch back to the mainland. Mom and I boarded the launch, Paul with us this time. He wisely decided he might sail the boat over early and return to render assistance to his wife and mother-in-law.

  As the boat pulled away from the dock, he said, “So, what do you think?”

  I looked at my husband, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “That bad?” he asked.

  “That good!” I kissed him. “Can we come back next year?”

  When the sun came out, Sandy Island was as magical as my husband had described to me all these years. We returned to Sandy year after year, for another sixteen years.

  Bonnie Walsh Davidson

  “Remind me to send an e-mail to the Weather Channel saying ‘Wrong again!’ Will you?”

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

  Caught on Video

  Many people who are not from the east coast of Canada assume that it is too cold here most of the time to enjoy many beach days. After all, the area I’m speaking of, located in the middle of the North Atlantic, has birthed tales of giant icebergs that sink ships, autumn gales that terrify, and snow that at times reaches the tops of the telephone poles. Although these tales are all true, Cape Breton Island, just east of Nova Scotia, has also spawned tales of beautiful days spent on sandy beaches that stretch for miles and miles, with such unique and warm ocean currents that pass through this area, you would think you were in your bathtub. I have one such memorable tale that ended in something I will never forget, and which I will cherish forever.

  The day started like any other July or August day on the cape. My parents packed up the van with lunches, towels, and beach gear, while my sisters and I gathered our favorite beach toys to add to the already crowded van. We pack a lot, but you have to understand what a day on the beach here entails. It’s a big event that begins early in the morning and goes well into the night, next to a warm fire. After all, East Coast winters are very long and hard, so we have to get as much sun as possible before going back into hibernation.

  It takes about an hour to drive to our favorite beach, which is located at the mouth of the famed Mira River. This particular day, we arrived a bit later than normal and were unable to stake out our usual place on the beach as it was already taken by another family. We were somewhat upset by this, but soon found a suitable place to set up camp for the day. We spent the day swimming and making sand castles, only taking a break to eat dinner.

  It was close to the end of our meal when I noticed some people getting out of a big white van. I noticed them because they didn’t look like typical beachgoers, as they were wearing jeans and T-shirts. What gave them away even more was all the equipment they were carrying down to the beach. From where I was, it looked like camera equipment. I was then distracted by the activity around me and quickly forgot the commotion unfolding down the beach.

  Soon after we finished our meal, we packed up all the gear and headed back down the beach to our van. We were oblivious to the men unloading the camera equipment onto the beach until one of them started toward us. After he had a short conversation with my dad, us kids were ushered toward an area next to the bridge where we were given instructions to sit around the fire, roast marshmallows, look like we’re having fun, and smile a lot. We were going to appear in a music video.

  We rehearsed a couple of times, and when we were ready, the cameras started rolling. After only a couple of takes, it was all done and we were relieved from our duties and given five dollars each for our time. That five-dollar bill was spent rather quickly on a trip to the Bayside canteen for ice cream on the way home. But I didn’t realize how priceless the experience was until the night arrived when the music video, “Song for the Mira” performed by Anne Murray, was broadcast on CBC across the nation. The song itself is a masterpiece, and the video couldn’t have depicted the magic of the Mira River any better. And there we were, around the campfire playing our part like the cameras were not even rolling. A memorable day on the banks of the Mira River caught on video to enjoy forever and share with all of Canada!

  Andrea MacEachern

  Frozen Dreams

  Never a ship sails out of the bay but carries my heart as a stowaway.

  Roselle Mercier Montgomery

  After putting the hot chocolate packages, marshmallows, cookstove, and matches in a knapsack, we piled on our winter clothes and skied to the beach. The sun had finally come out, and we felt like explorers at the North Pole, though we were only in Michigan, cross-country skiing through the woods and leaving only our tracks on the fresh snow. Looking at the empty cottages, we imagined what it’d be like living in one of them surrounded by the snow-covered trees, away from parents, brothers, and sisters.

  Both Linda and I wished we could swap homes. She wanted to live within walking distance of the library, and I longed to live near the beach. But on this wintry day, the best homes were these deserted cottages.

  “I’d live in this cottage all year if I owned it,” I said, nodding to an old three-story house.

  “Maybe we’ll be famous writers when we’re older, and one of these big cottages will be ours.”

  “You think we’ll ever be rich, Linda?”

  “I will be.”

  We skied on in silence, both lost in our private thoughts until reaching a clearing overlooking the lake. “It’s beautiful!” I screamed. Ten-foot waves had been frozen solid, just as they were breaking against the shore. There was nothing but icebergs for miles up and down the shore.

  “My dad’s fishing boat is stuck out there,” Linda said, pointing at Lake Michigan. “It happens every winter.”

  “When do you think he’ll be back?”

  “When the ice melts. Unless the Coast Guard finds a way to haul them to shore in Racine, they won’t be coming back to Holland for awhile.”

  My dad worked at a factory during the day. He punched in, punched out, and came home grumpy, while Linda’s dad and his fishermen friends hung out in the fish shed telling jokes and talking about their wild adventures. During the warm months, I’d ride my bike to her house on Sundays so I could drink a Dr. Pepper with the men, hoping I’d be invited to go out on the fishing boat.

  “They like fishing to get away from their wives,” Linda said. “Even I don’t get to go out with them. It’s a guy thing.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun if we had an all-girl fishing boat?”

  “I don’t want to fish. I’d rathe
r work in a factory.”

  We skied down the dune to the beach. Everything looked so foreign. It seemed like the people climbing the dunes could have been explorers on Mars. We propped our skis in the snow and joined the others walking on the frozen ice, but walking just a little further out than the rest. We were certain this thick ice wouldn’t break.

  “Here’s a good spot out of the wind,” Linda decided.

  The sun was starting to set while we heated water in a pan. Both of us kept our hands over the flame, thawing out our fingers while the temperature dropped with the disappearing sun.

  “One of these days I’m going to walk around the entire lake, Linda.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to do it. I want to see the people who live in northern Michigan and Wisconsin.”

  “There are channels you’d have to get across, just like the one over there by the lighthouse.”

  “I could swim them.”

  “Maybe. I’d rather move to France for an adventure.”

  “That seems so far away.”

  “That’s why,” Linda laughed. She was one year older and seemed to know way more than me. It would take me awhile to find France on the map hanging on Linda’s bedroom wall, but she could point out any river or country without thinking about it.

  Sitting on the iceberg, we drank our hot chocolate watching the people leave the beach, wondering where we’d live, which places we’d visit, and what famous books we’d write.

  Before skiing home, we looked for Linda’s dad’s fishing boat, but saw nothing except frozen water blending into the gray sky—nothing but icebergs, nothing but dreams.

  Diane Payne

  The Beach Club

  As far back as I can recall, my family and I spent our summers at our cabana at Silver Point Beach Club on Long Island, New York. The memories we made at the beach are among the fondest memories I have. My father had passed away the summer before I turned four, and when I think of my dad, I can see him in our cabana or out on the sand or splashing in the water, just enjoying the lazy summer days. I wish he could have enjoyed more summers with us, but at least he’ll always be at the beach in my mind.

  Three carloads of us would arrive at the beach very early in the morning: my mom, my two sisters, my brother, my aunt and uncle, my two cousins, and any guests we’d invited to join us that day. We’d march down the boardwalk in single file, our arms heavy with bags of food, supplies, clean towels, clothes, and whatever else we thought we might need.

  We’d quickly unpack so we could sit down to eat breakast. Our days basically revolved around mealtimes. We’d begin the morning with warm bagels and an assortment of spreads. Then we’d all part for a few hours to build sand castles, play paddle ball, swim, read, or search out new and old friends. Then we’d be be back for lunch: cold cuts and rye bread and an assortment of salads and soda.

  Harry and Henrietta—who seemed very old to me at five, but were probably only in their mid-thirties—had the big corner cabana at the end of our row. They’d give us kids chocolate-covered graham crackers whenever we passed by. I was a chubby kid and cookies were usually withheld, but Harry and Henrietta always had one for me. I’d pass by their cabana as many times a day as I could come up with reasons.

  After lunch, we’d find creative ways to have fun. We’d carve airplanes and cars out of the sand, using whatever we could find to create seats, wings, and controls. We’d spend hours creating these masterpieces that took only minutes to crush and fill. We also made easy things from the sand and water, like cakes, pies, and cupcakes. Then we’d sell them to the adults for a penny each. We’d take these treasured pennies down the boardwalk, looking for things to buy from the kids who had their wares (painted shells and sea glass) set up on their superhero towels. We’d get to pass Henrietta’s cabana for another cookie— both ways.

  Sometime after lunch, we’d usually go to the pool. There were two pools—the “big” pool and the kiddie pool. I never bothered with the kiddie pool. I just jumped into the deep end of the big pool one day and never came out. I loved swimming and even participated in the annual swimming races every summer. The pool was great, but I loved the ocean too. I’d jump the waves and dive headfirst into them alongside my uncle. Then we’d trudge across the large expanse of sand back to the cabana to shower off the salt water—just in time for dinner.

  My mom and aunt would be busy in the small cabana, making us what seemed like a feast after such an active day. We’d sit around the table—the adults at theirs and the kids at ours—and we’d talk about the day and what we would do the next day.

  We’d all hang around for a while after dinner, then we kids would change into our PJs for the ride over the bridge. It was okay to be going home; we knew we’d be back the next day—even if it was raining. The rain couldn’t keep us away. We had such fun huddling inside the cabana wrapped in our towels and oversized sweatshirts and telling spooky stories, playing cards, reading, or, of course, eating. We were all so close then, and I couldn’t imagine that days like these would someday come to an end.

  When we were a bit older, my cousin and I would pull a pair of chairs down to the water’s edge and sit and talk about anything and nothing. We’d share our fears, hopes, wonders, and dreams. We’d talk about the “old” beach-club days when we used to play team tag in the place we called the “zoo”—rows and rows of lockers for people who didn’t have cabanas.

  I experienced many “firsts” at the beach club: my first job (as the arts and crafts counselor at the beach club camp), my first crush (on our cabana boy), and even my first kiss. I’d made so, so many memories at the beach, but I always knew there were more to come, more summers ahead. Even when we kids were all grown up, we’d meet at the beach on the weekends. My niece and I would climb the lifeguard chair and watch the sunset together while I’d tell her of all the cool things I used to do at the beach. When I got married, my husband made himself busy repairing the cabana, which had seen much wear and tear in the course of thirty years.

  Although the cabana was still in the family, at some point we stopped being there as a family. All too soon, it seemed, we went our separate ways, and my husband and I found ourselves living across the country. Finally, my mom and aunt decided to let the cabana go, to let another family have it, to create their own cherished memories of growing up on the beach.

  I haven’t been back to Silver Point since we moved out west, but I can always visit it in my mind. I vacation at the beach—any beach—as often as possible. I drop my things in my hotel room, and then practically run down to the water. I make a sand trail with my feet, swooshing the hot sand back and forth until I reach the cool, wetter sand. I still anticipate a good rainstorm and the card game that’s sure to follow, along with the chocolate-covered graham crackers I’ll buy in the hotel lobby.

  When I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see, hear, feel, and taste the Silver Point Beach Club. I imagine looking out onto the ocean from the railing of the stilts. I see the seagulls zigzagging over the garbage cans. I see the heavy green doors of the cabana. I look where the sand ends and the water starts. I see the umbrellas and chairs. I hear the waves crashing and people laughing. I smell the salt in the air and feel it on my skin. I feel almost four again, dragging my feet through the sand to leave my trail, twisting my body back and forth, and thinking of how good it feels to be part of a family, how good it feels to be loved.

  Karen Falk

  A Seacliff Serenade

  Love must be as much a light as it is a flame.

  Henry David Thoreau

  He was fifteen, or so he lied. I was fifteen (the truth). And the night I met thirteen-year-old Michael B. around a driftwood fire on Seacliff Beach was immense: it meant I was no longer romantically backward. Finally, like all my junior high school friends had already, it was my turn to fall in love for the first time, and Michael flipped me into the abyss with his eyes of Aegean Sea blue and manner as shy as mine.

  That was thirty-five years
ago.

  Today, the details of my first romance, the magic of my first love, live in my mind and heart as a seaside serendipity of sun, sand, surf, and stars. Seacliff Beach is where my first boyfriend and I swam and splashed and laughed: my first kiss, my first beer, my first French kiss—all with Michael B.—all at Seacliff Beach.

  Now, a lifetime later, I suspect the beach is bewitched. I mean, really, what can Seacliff be thinking? This California crescent of shore where dolphins frolic, seabirds play, and sun and stars smile down on a beautiful central coast— well, it seems the beach is bringing back to me the love I knew at fifteen. And it is not simply the flush of thrill, the rush of something new, unexpected, or immense. It is, as well, the boy himself, his Aegean Sea eyes unchanged in all this time.

  Not that he washed up with the tide, although he might have for all my surprise. But just last week as I walked the beach, there he was: my first love, running along the sand. And to see him, these thirty-five years worth of exboy friends later, is to realize with an uncomfortable start, I hardly have evolved at all!

  I confess, not since my teenage romance have I managed to swim and splash and laugh in the ocean surf with the same free and easy abandon that ran like the wind through the me of fifteen. And let’s be honest: In my three and a half decades of travel to other beaches on a handful of continents, not a single one has offered so much as a harmless flirtation, much less an enjoyable fling, far less a serious love.

  But the beach that is the site of my teenage triumph, where I fell in love during a sunburned summer of surfing and swimming and fun—I think it is up to something.

  Michael is newly divorced (the truth). At age fifty-one, I am starting over. That’s a lie. At age fifty-one-and-a-half and fresh from a long romance gone wrong, I, too, am beginning again. So, tripping upon my first love at this precise moment in time on the very sand where magic once upon a time whirled me in a dance of freshly awakened desire, a dance that tossed me up, up into the realm where all feels possible—well, it does seem slightly suspect. Early this evening I walked to the beach from the family house to which after years away I have returned, unsure of where the life I play out next will be—this city or that? In silence I converse with the very same sun, sand, and sea that long ago held so much promise for the clueless me of fifteen. “Come now, Seacliff, out with it,” I say. “Is bringing me Michael your sly, wily way of matchmaking— again?” The surf speaks not; the birds keep mum.