The Beach

I love the beach. I've been going there since I was little; I grew up in South Carolina, and my family went there nearly every year. Sometimes it was just us, sometimes we vacationed with extended family, but the one constant was the beach. And when I say the beach, I mean the ocean ... preferably the Atlantic Ocean, though I'm sure the Pacific is fine too.

When Bobby and I were dating, he suggested we take a trip to the beach, specifically to Panama City, Florida. (That's where he grew up vacationing.) I was game -- it was the closest, and any beach is as good as the next, right? Oh, no. I quickly discovered that, for me, the Gulf of Mexico doesn't qualify as the beach ... more like a really big lake. "Where are the waves?" I asked him. "Where are the little pools that form as the tide goes out?" "Where are the fiddler crabs that dig in the sand?"

We never went back to Panama City.

Since we got married, we've joined my parents' annual beach trip. We go every September, with mom, dad, and mom's siblings, renting a house right on the beach after the summer crowds have departed. It's wonderful - fun and relaxing. There's something about standing on the edge of an ocean looking out at the horizon ... realizing how small you are ... how vast is the world. When I was younger, I would look at the horizon and wonder what country was directly "across" the ocean from us. "If we were to get in a boat and just sail straight across," I asked my dad, "what country would we hit?" Probably Portugal, or maybe somewhere in Africa, he answered. I remember feeling disappointed; I really wanted it to be England.

I love everything about the beach -- the salty air (even the residue it leaves on our car), sand you can never truly brush off, salt water that burns when it gets in your eyes and nose, shrimp boats out in the early morning, trolling for that night's dinner. For the past few years we've been going to the same beach, Topsail Island, N.C. As soon as we cross the last bridge to the island, Bobby and I roll down our windows and open the sunroof, no matter how hot it is. Those first few breaths of sea air are intoxicating.

Bobby laughs at my dad and me; we're in the ocean as soon as we can. (Torture for us was the year a hurricane had just passed through, and red-flag warnings were up for the first couple of days.) We love to body surf; forget boogie boards and surf boards -- I've never been able to figure them out, though I did get up on a surf board once in high school. Once. Catching the wave just right and riding it all the way to shore makes me feel like I'm part of the ocean. I glide along the top of it, yet I can hear the crashes below me as it rolls toward the shore and eventually deposits me - sometimes gently, sometimes not - on the sand in inches-deep water. There's definitely an art to body-surfing, and my dad is the master; often we try for the same wave, and I fail miserably while he rides it 50 feet to shore. He outlasts us "kids" who are 30 years younger than him, staying in the water long after we've tired and come in to rest.

One of the best parts of parenthood has been introducing Maggie to the beach. She loves it as much as we do, beginning our trip countdown months in advance and carefully planning what to take and do. She and Bobby build sand castles and tunnels for toy cars to drive through. She and Pop jump waves, and she lets him carry her to where the water is over her head. She and my Aunt Jane play silly games, and she learns knock-knock jokes from my Uncle Bobby. She and Grandma walk along the beach looking for shells. She and I lie with our heads in the sand at water's edge, feeling the ocean lap at our feet.

2005 - First trip to the beach

2006

2007

A recap of last year's beach trip can be found by searching the blog for the label "beach." Since last year was the first year I was a blogger, I shared daily reports and pictures from our trip.

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It's Madhouse Wednesday over at Kate's blog ... Come play along! This week's topic is "The Beach."