Beach Days

In those days, Camp Ellis was an expanse of endless sand and surf.  There I spent my summers, from just after sunrise to sunset.  I wore a two- piece bathing suit with ruffles on my bottom. Bare-footed. Freckles danced across my nose.  Walking along  just where the sea and sand meet,  I bent to pick up purple prickly sea urchins or tightly bound periwinkles plopping them one by one in my red plastic pail. On rare occasions I found a tiny hermit crab that would not peep out, unless I held my breath for the longest time in trickery. Then he would emerge showing bulging round eyes and antennae. This is how I spent the hour after lunch-the longest hour of the day when my mother said it was important to digest my food before swimming again. Torturous! 

I spent all other hours in the salty swell of the ocean. Hearing my name against the roar of the sea, meant the hour was up and I could safely swim. I tossed off my terry robe and kicked up the sand behind me as I raced plunging, my speckled Styrofoam kickboard leading the way in, keeping me afloat.  

On the car ride home, my skin stiff with salt and parched from the sun, the kickboard settled across my bare belly,  I steadied it, shifting to drape my arm across its’ width.  Ready for another sunny day.

These days, I visit the sea near my home searching for sea glass, interesting rocks and shells.  Now and again, I stop and let the waves gently ripple over my bare feet, until soon they are numb from the cold.  I no longer count my time at the beach by days, but by hours, alone with my thoughts of an earlier time.