I have few memories of going to the beach as a kid. As a baby my parents still rented a house on the shore in Connecticut. I vaguely remember it, most of my memories are cobbled together by pictures I have seen and stories I have heard. But I do remember leaving. I remember
crying at the top of my lungs for the entire hour-long trip home, desperate to stay near the ocean. As
a child and tween (not that that word was around when I was 11) I have miserable memories from the beach. Ones that involved stinging sunburns, stale and sandy chips, long, hot car rides in which we always got lost, and, being the youngest of three, having to sit in the back, middle seat.
Then frequent visits to Maine and New Hampshire became my respite from city life and on one trip it dawned on me that this is where I needed to be. Today, I took my first, post-school year trip to the beach. I woke up, had some coffee, filled my water bottle and hopped in the car. Within ten minutes, I was parked and walking down the stone steps on to the sand. I keep a beach bag packed with a towel, two mini quilts, sunblock, and a frisbee in the car, along with my beach chair.(You nev
er know when the spirit is going to move you to have lunch or catch up with an old friend on the beach!) It was crowded, but the energy was lively. I set myself up, read a trashy magazine, listened to a couple of podcasts I had saved, and knit away at my latest baby sweater. It was one of those moments where you just sigh with happiness.