ONCE MORE TO THE BEACH

Mother, mother ocean

I have heard your call

Wanted to sail upon your waters

since I was three feet tall

— Jimmy Buffett

CRANE BEACH, MA — Late August 2005 — The only place on earth that has not changed since I frequented the beach is the beach itself. Whether it fronts the chaos of California or the quilt of this Commonwealth, a beach is still made for a boy. And a girl. And a father who, even as we set out from home, can feel a surge in his aging soul.

The drive is long and sticky. When are we going to be there? Are we there yet? Now are we there yet? At last reaching the parking lot, the boy hustles out of the car and bolts for the sand. The girl follows, ignoring both parents’ calls to carry things - towels, mats, sandwiches. Doffing shoes, the boy and girl reach the sand and squinch it in their toes. The beach! The beach, at last! Here in late August, with just a week's sand remaining in its precious hourglass, the season can finally be called Summer.

Yes, there is water where we live -- ponds, lakes, a reservoir. A river runs through our towns, and there are always swimming pools. Yet none of these bodies of water speaks to the rhythms of childhood because none have waves.

So now the boy and girl, who delight when some speedboat makes a large ripple in a local lake, stand face-to-face with the Atlantic Ocean. Their father, once hammered by the booming breakers of the Pacific, scoffs at these two-foot swells. But as soon as the boy and girl streak into the water, he stands onshore and feels the rhythm, the advance and retreat, the surge and splash that have the boy and girl laughing out loud and calling for more.

They never want to leave. They want to move here, to forget everything they ever knew of fall, winter, and spring, to live on the beach, to become the ocean, tossing and being tossed, diving and coming up sputtering and salty, the sun tingling all over them as they gaze out at the blue edge of the earth, wanting to sail off and over it.

A painting by The Mother (juliekumble.com)

Now the boy catches a wave and gets the ocean's free ride, a frothing glide into shore. He lingers a moment and suddenly he's in the whirlpool, sand and salt water swirling around him as he struggles to his feet with the tide tickling him. Then he heads back out to where his sister is bobbing over swells that gently lift her and set her down again on firm sand.

Next comes a wave they misjudge. It lifts the girl higher than she's ever been, then careens into shore and slaps the boy cold in the face. He goes down and comes up with a mouthful of salt. He spits, adding his own juices to the world's, and like countless children before him, he wonders why the ocean is salty. But before he can get a father's lame answer, another wave begs the question. And with his bare, glistening back to the land, he heads out again, deeper into the realm from which we all came.

Summer is almost over now. By late afternoon, the sand is running out of the season and beginning to fill bathing suits. Coming out of the water for the last time, the boy and girl itch and twitch and tug at the corners. Sadly, they gather towels, mats, and sandwich crusts, then turn for one last look at the blue edge of earth. It will be here forever, even in fall, winter, and spring, yet it will not define Summer until the next time they scrunch their toes in the sand.

It will be a long ride home, with certain parts rubbed raw and others melting into the car's molten seats. By the time we get home, they will wonder if the sun, sand, and spray were all a dream. But tonight, they will be rocked to sleep, not by a parent but by the rhythm, the advance and retreat, the surge and swell that will, for one last summer night, make their beds feel like surfboards and make their salty souls feel free. As if they are ocean after all.

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