Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Page 4

  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.

  But riding the waves was my favorite fun thing to do. Today boards are used, but when I was a youngster you used your body as the board. We perfected the art of selecting the “perfect wave” and riding it for several hundred feet, right up onto the dry beach. We mastered the ability to change directions at the last split second. To this day I can still remember the panicked look on the bathers’ faces as we just skimmed by them, much to our enjoyment and much to their fright. It was the high of the day to end up on the dry beach. I would lay there savoring my victory for a few moments before getting up and charging into the water again to conquer another wave. It was always just “one more wave” that got me in trouble as I rushed home—wet, barefooted, and full of sand—trying to beat Mom’s five o’clock deadline for supper.

  As with everything in life, there was a downside to living on the summer beach. Sunburns, blowing sand, other bratty kids kicking sand on you, and the dangers of rip tides carrying you out to sea or waves slamming you into the ocean bottom were a few. But the worst intrusion was people invading the serenity of my existence as I dozed off while lying on the beach with the warm sand contoured around my body and my mind full of the fantasies of my own summer beach.

  To me, the beach is everything good, whether you are seventeen or in your seventies, as I am now. In my later years I find that it still draws me into its world of escapism. I no longer spend time on the beach in the summer because of the strong sun and the crowds, but I do visit my old hideaway in the other seasons.

  Now it is fall and the transition begins. The summer bennies have returned to their winter homes away from the shore while the parking meters and the lifeguard benches have retreated to their winter storage locations. The boardwalk concessions are still holding their ground, but they are boarded up for the long winter hiatus. Nature is taking control again.

  My solitary, quiet, and uneventful walks along the edge of the water, protected with warm clothing to buffer me from the cold winds and the distant sun, still stimulate my body and my mind. They are a respite from the busy world of details and demands. When I walk on my beach now, I am enveloped in an aura of peace and serenity. My spirit, my soul, is strangely warmed in spite of nature’s cold temperatures. I know life is still worth living. The simple things of life always bring me back to this realization: Life is good. My beach of decades ago, with all its activities of youth and excitement, beautifully meshes with my beach of today, with my deeper appreciation of its quietness and reassurance. As I walk along examining and picking up the fascinating shells by the water line, I am reminded that now is all I have. Now is all I need.

  George H. Moffett

  A Wave of Joy

  “This is the best day of my life,” Joy said as we hauled our surfboards up the beach. I knew exactly what she meant because surfing changed my life, too. It’s hard to put into words what the simple act of riding a wave can mean to a person, but I’ll try.

  Surfing is a metaphor for life. Many people say, “I’ll be happy as soon as . . . ,” and they finish the sentence with “I get a raise, buy a house, lose some weight” and so on. The truth is, the pursuit of those goals is the reward. Surfers always talk about the perfect wave, but some of the most enjoyable rides come in less-than-perfect conditions. Besides, a good ride lasts less than a minute, but the pursuit of a wave can take all day—and what a great day it is because you are at the beach.

  I could tell that Joy “got it” when it came to surfing, even though she was only ten years old. When she first stepped into my surf shop you could see it in her eyes. She was stoked.

  Her mom came up to the counter and said rather dejectedly, “My daughter says she wants to learn how to surf. I’m not happy about it, but I’m going along with it because I know it’s just a phase.”

  They say the customer is always right, so I didn’t dare correct her and tell her the truth. Surfing is not a phase; it’s a lifestyle. I should know; I own a surf shop.

  I took the time to show Joy all the surfboards that would be a good fit for her, as well as some of the accessories that went with them. As I did this, something occurred to me. Here I was cooped up in my shop and this girl was going surfing. That’s when I blurted out, “How would you like a free surfing lesson?”

  “Really!” Joy replied.

  “For free?” her mom asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “With each board you buy you get a free surfing lesson.” I was making this up on the fly because I wanted to get out in the water.

  “We’ll take it,” the mom said.

  “Can we go now?” Joy asked.

  I looked at the mom and said, “Absolutely.”

  In my mind, there is nothing better than spending the day surfing—except teaching someone else how to surf. I was a little nervous conducting my first impromptu surf lesson, but once I realized I had been surfing since I was ten, it seemed like this was meant to happen. The first thing I did when we got to the beach was point out the different colors in the water and what that meant—a sandy bottom creates a lighter coloring while a reef leaves the ocean looking darker and so on. We talked about what makes a wave break and where to be in order to catch it. We spent an hour in the sand (the classroom) before we even got in the water. Joy loved every minute of it.

  We waded into the shallow water and spotted a stingray and leopard shark nearby. “Shuffle your feet,” I said.

  “That was so cool. I saw a shark,” Joy gushed.

  I wondered how she would react to the dolphins that ride the waves at this particular spot.

  It didn’t take long. “Did you see that?” she said as two dolphins darted in and out of a wave not more than a few yards from us.

  “Those dolphins have it made. They get to surf all day,” I said.

  “They are so lucky,” Joy replied.

  So far my first surf lesson was going great. All the time I took explaining how waves broke and how to paddle over, around, and under them had paid off—Joy had made it out past the surf with ease. Once we were beyond where the waves were breaking we were able to sit on our boards and talk. “Are you ready to ride your first wave?” I asked Joy.

  “Oh yeah, but I kinda like just sitting here, too,” she said.

  “I know. It’s peaceful,” I pointed out.

  Joy then began telling me about everything going on in her life.

  As luck would have it, a great wave was approaching us. “Joy, are you ready?” I asked. She nodded. “O
kay, start paddling for this wave and stand up once you’ve got it.”

  Joy not only caught the wave perfectly, but she rode it all the way to shore. I caught the next one and rode it in. Joy was jumping up and down on the sand, screaming with excitement.

  “That was so gnarly!” she said.

  “Great wave,” I replied. “You can now surf.”

  We spent the rest of the day surfing together, and when we were done I knew Joy was hooked. I also knew I was hooked on teaching people how to surf.

  So when Joy said, “This is the best day of my life,” I answered back with, “Me, too.”

  Lee Silber

  The Treasure

  Night’s darkness is the bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.

  Rabindranath Tagore

  “Eric, do you want to go look for shells?”

  My youngest popped his head up from under the sheet and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “About 6:30,” I whispered.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Is anyone else going?”

  “No. They’re all still asleep.”

  It was the last day of our annual family beach vacation. My husband and other two children preferred to sleep in after staying up late each night, unlike my fellow morning buddy, Eric.

  “Okay. I’ll go. Don’t leave yet.”

  “I won’t,” I assured him. “I’ll wait on you.”

  My eight-year-old threw on shorts and a T-shirt faster than ever. We headed out the beach house door, down the back stairs, past the pool, and onto the beach. I kicked off my flip-flops and waited while he removed his sandals. Other early-morning risers dotted the shoreline. With shoes in hand, we squished our toes through the soft sand and walked toward the water’s edge to begin our hunt.

  “Maybe we’ll find a sand dollar, Mommy.”

  “Maybe. I’ve wanted to find a whole one for a long time. I’ve looked, but only found lots of pieces.”

  He looked up at me. “If I find one, I’ll give it to you.”

  I smiled while the hint of tears began to form in my eyes. His tender heart brought him out this early in search of something for me. Now my quest had become his.

  While we walked and searched, we talked about his friends, his brother and sister, school, and dreams he’d kept. The conversation stopped whenever he found a piece of a sand dollar.

  “Is this one?”

  “Yup, sure is.” I added it to the growing collection of pieces he already found. With my other hand, I tousled his hair and rubbed his back, trying to avoid getting sand from my flip-flops all over him. “It’s amazing that you just learned what a sand dollar looked like a few days ago, and now you can spot pieces of them better and faster than anyone.”

  He beamed. “Maybe we’ll find a whole one since we got up early.”

  “Maybe, honey.” I was hopeful, but the longer we looked, the more I doubted.

  An older lady walked up to us. “Here,” she said, handing us a beautiful round shell with spirals on it. “I collect these. They’re called shark’s eyes. I just love them.”

  Eric and I examined the shell. The spirals spun inward to form an eye in the colorful center.

  “That’s cool,” Eric whispered in my ear.

  “Yes, it is cool,” I repeated loudly for the lady. “Thank you.”

  Soon he and I were back on our quest with the new discovery, chatting happily. I picked up a few tiny shells because they were cute, flawless, and easy to carry.

  FLORIDA

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands

  FLORIDA

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands

  “We should have brought a bucket. Why didn’t we think of that?” I asked, while trying to balance all the shells in my left hand.

  He giggled after looking at the overflowing pile. “If we find a whole one, we won’t need all of those pieces anymore. That’ll make it easier to carry.”

  We continued down the beach toward the end of the island. At a patch of larger rocks, we stopped to scour the area for more treasure. With one foot on a large rock and the other in the shallow water, I searched.

  Suddenly, I heard Eric ask again from the flat beach area, “Is this one?”

  I turned and looked down at his open hand, expecting to see another piece like the others. My eyes grew big and my mouth might have fallen open. “Oh, my gosh, Eric. You found one. You found a whole sand dollar!”

  His blue eyes danced with excitement, and he smiled like it was Christmas. He showed me where he found it, and then we studied it carefully. The grayish-brown wafer fit perfectly on my palm. Packed sand covered most of its star design on the top, leaving only four outside slits and one inner slit visible, but to us it was absolutely perfect.

  I handed it back to him. “It’s hard to find a whole one because they break so easily. That’s why this is such a treasure you’ve found.”

  He pushed his hand with the sand dollar toward me. “You can have it.”

  He did it to me again. Tears welled in my eyes. I swallowed hard. “No, honey, thank you, but you found it. You should keep it.”

  After a few more rounds of trying, he relented. “Okay, I’ll help you find another one.”

  I smiled, knowing the odds of finding another one were slimmer than finding the first one. He insisted on carrying the treasure, being careful not to crush it. I made sure to tell every other shell seeker we came across about his discovery. He proudly held out his hand with the sand dollar for everyone to see. My shy little guy even answered the same question again and again for the impressed adults.

  “I just found it on top of a pile of shells,” he declared.

  As we put on our shoes to go back for breakfast, Eric said, “You can leave those other pieces of sand dollars somewhere. Another person might find them and think they found a great treasure like I did.”

  I left them there, thinking about my son’s treasure and the one he was leaving for others to find. Suddenly my shell-seeking desire seemed insignificant. Walking with his sandy hand in mine, I knew that sharing that morning with him was a far greater treasure than any whole sand dollar ever could be.

  Paula F. Blevins

  Only at the Beach

  All that is good in man lies in youthful feeling and mature thought.

  Joseph Joubert

  It all began with the leopard bathing suit. We lived in an apartment that always seemed too small for the four of us in our family. I was not happy in the high school I attended nor in the neighborhood where I lived. And at that time in my life, I was not happy with myself most of all. I was shy and unsure. I did not like my body or my face.

  Until I reached the beach, that is. Every summer, with what little money we had, we would rent a room at the shore. In that room would be my brother and I, Mother, and Father. There was always one of us on a cot somewhere in a corner. But it was worth it all—sharing bathrooms with people we never knew before, listening to intimate conversations through the walls, and trying to get along in a community kitchen.

  None of that mattered when I reached the beach. This particular summer, I had bought a one-piece leopard bathing suit. It seemed to feel comfortable on my body the moment I tried it on. It gave me curves I never knew I owned. I had long blonde hair at the time and wore on one arm a gold bracelet that clung not to my wrist, but halfway up my arm. The effect was dramatic.

  Nowhere else could I be this daring but on the beach. In my mind, I dropped the personality that proved disappointing in the winter and acquired one that surprised even me. She arrived on the scene each summer as a mystery to everyone around her. She was brave and daring and coy and seductive. The gold bracelet announced all of this, along with the leopard bathing suit.

  There were many boys who admired what was in the suit. Of course they did not know a shy girl also lived there. Every moment was cherished on the beach. The blankets spread out around us—the radios propped up, the posing and primping and sunbathing with a gene
rous collection of young men arriving and leaving the blankets. We lived our fantasy, at fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old, having left our real lives behind. Only on the beach could we become anything we dared. The moment we stepped on the sand, we were transformed for the summer.

  There were romantic meetings beneath the boardwalk, promises made and broken, beach parties beneath the stars, with long walks and long talks. We always sat in the same place, as if a spot of beach were reserved for us. And sometimes, even in the rain, we would be there, covered by our blankets. On the last weekend of summer, we would cry as if our hearts were broken. They were. For all of us knew that we would have to return to the realness of our lives and wait patiently until next summer.

  Only a few days ago, some fifty-five summers later, a man surprised me with a visit. We had not seen each other for many years. We talked of past summers, of our shared memories of the beach and then he said, “I’ll never forget that leopard bathing suit and that gold bracelet on your arm.” And then he laughed. “You wouldn’t have that bathing suit around, would you?”

  I did not tell him, but of course I did. It was invisible to his eyes and others, but I was wearing the leopard bathing suit as always. Every summer.

  Harriet May Savitz

  “You get to a certain age, and, last year’s swimsuit is good enough!”

  Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro. © 2005 Stephanie Piro.

  My Father’s Oldsmobile

  Those who say you can’t take it with you never saw a car packed for a vacation trip.