Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (13 page)

She gathered the brood into her lap and around the chair. All three kids and their grandma smiled. Not the forced smile from the past week of pain, but a smile of hope. Better days would come, and they were beginning here at the beach in the reflection of a smile.

Paula F. Blevins

A Toast to a Brighter Life

Once again it is time to pack up the car and travel twelve hours to the beach. We have made this trip many times. This year the ocean serves a different purpose. The night is beautiful, and the sun is just starting to set in the western sky. I gather my family and friends and tell them it is time for us to take our first night beach walk. In my right hand I am carrying a bag. My girlfriend is bringing along a cooler, and my husband has a large rock in his hands. I take the lead—family and friends are walking toward the fishing pier. The sand feels wonderful beneath our feet. The waves are clapping against the shore, and the stars are beginning to shine. Our destination is in sight. We watch the fishermen unloading their gear in hopes of catching the big one. Fishing is not what we intend to do on the pier. We all pay our fifty cents and start the long walk out to the very end of the pier. We feel the wooden planks beneath our sandaled feet. Our gathering awaits my next move. I open the bag that contains items that have consumed me and my family this past year. My husband places the large rock in the bag. With trembling hands and tears in my eyes I drop the bag into the ocean. I hear the splash of the water as the bag starts to drop to the ocean floor. I do not move until I know that the bag rests deep within the ocean to remain there forever. Slowly I turn to my family and friends who have accompanied me on this mission. The words “I hate cancer” come out of my mouth. One year ago the demon of breast cancer invaded my life. Now all of the cancer literature, my wig, and other reminders of cancer lie on the ocean floor. Surgery, chemo, and radiation gone.
Stay on that ocean
floor forever, you demon of cancer. I hate you!
The sun sets for the day, the ocean waves clap all around the wooden pier. The night sky fills with beautiful twinkling stars. The stars seem much brighter tonight. The cooler is now open, and someone pours champagne into paper cups. We raise our paper cups and toast to a beautiful night—a night that will always be remembered as the night cancer was laid to rest on the ocean floor. Gone is the day, gone is breast cancer. Let the vacation of fun begin. Our mission—accomplished!

Karen Theis

A Gift from the Sea

T
he sea does not reward those who are too anxious,
too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures
shows not only impatience and greed, but
lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is
what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One
should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—
waiting for a gift from the sea.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The weather was freezing outside, but it was warm and toasty by the Douglas fir Christmas tree. Our cats were busy batting the ribbons and wrapping scattered around the room as my older son handed me his Christmas gift for the family. The room got even cozier and noticeably warmer as I read his card.

Whenever I was asked what I wanted for Christmas, I usually responded as many mothers do: “I don't need anything. . . . Save your money. . . . I just want my family to be healthy and happy.” My son handed me his present, and all eyes turned to watch me open the handmade gift card. With anticipation, I read his note offering to treat the family to a weekend at the beach at Cape May.

Memories of summers taking the boys to the beach flooded back. Cape May, a beautiful Victorian beach town at the southern tip of New Jersey, was always an ideal spot to get away and spend time together relaxing on the pristine white sand that framed the Atlantic Ocean. With card in hand, I couldn't wait for summer, when we could once again pile in the car and head to the beach.

As the weekend approached, I prepared by digging out an old Fred Penner tape we used to play to make the car ride go more quickly. I packed Frisbees and tennis balls and long-forgotten sand toys. With the car ready to go, my son eased himself into the driver's seat . . . a bonus for my husband, who jumped at the rare opportunity to sit back and play DJ with the radio.

The hours in the car flew by as we caught up on all the happenings in our busy lives. Arriving in the quaint town, we quickly found our favorite hotel, checked in, and hit the beach. After a refreshing dip in the ocean, we basked in the sun and soaked in our surroundings. Sitting on our blankets, my younger son noticed a rare occurrence happening right near the gentle surf where we had just been swimming. A school of dolphins had emerged and were frolicking just beyond the whitecaps. As they gracefully rose from the water and engaged in their beautiful dance before our eyes, I was sure they had come by just to celebrate our visit.

That afternoon, playing games of Trouble and Uno and reading on the beachfront balcony with its peaceful view, the years continued to slip away. As evening approached, we changed out of our swimsuits and made our way to a favorite seafood restaurant. With the sun setting over the water, we placed our orders from the extensive menu of fresh fish offerings and took our time savoring the meal. Afterward we shared ice cream cones that dripped on our clothes as we valiantly tried to keep up with the large melting scoops of cold vanilla ice cream. The evening would not have been complete without an after-dinner trip to the arcade. The whole family played multiple games of Skeeball, carefully stockpiling tickets so we could redeem them for the fabulous prizes such as vampire teeth and snake tattoos.

On Sunday, walking one last time on the boardwalk and dipping our toes in the sand, we took a final look at the calm, clear water. Relaxed and rejuvenated, we packed up our belongings and loaded the car for the trip home. We may have been leaving the beach, but I knew I would keep that special Christmas gift in my heart forever. Time with the family . . . truly the gift that keeps on giving.

Pamela Hackett Hobson

Good-bye to the Ocean

T
he longer I live, the more beautiful life
becomes.

Frank Lloyd Wright

How she loved the ocean!

I can remember my mother striding down the beach with a certain spring in her step, ready to meet the mighty Atlantic head-on.

I can remember how she'd pause briefly at the lifeguard stand to ask the temperature of the water, charming those young men on duty with her wonderful smile.

And no matter what they said—no matter how bone-chilling the pronouncement—my mom would venture forth. It was as if she had an urgent commitment to meet, a manifest destiny with the sea. There was no stopping her. My mother is ninety-six now. “A big number,” she says often, with just a hint of awe in her voice.

She no longer frolics in the sea.

Until about two years ago, Mom would somehow manage to have her rendezvous with the Atlantic Ocean. A friend would invite her to the shore, and she'd find a way to get there. Or she'd join up with a bus trip from her apartment building. Or one of her daughters or granddaughters would help her to the water's edge.

But after a miserable encounter with a broken hip, Mom has sadly said good-bye to her annual reunions with the surf. For the first time in her ninety-six years, she is timid, even fearful. The waves that once delighted her now look intimidating. The ocean is too full of surprises—dips and sudden undertows, crashing breakers that could toss a tiny lady about like so much seaweed.

“No more ocean,” Mom said earlier this year. “Not for me.”

She said it so resignedly that it made my heart lurch. No drama. No semblance of self-pity.

Old age has made my mother accepting in ways that only the very elderly can understand. She knows that life is tricky. She understands that everything can change in a single moment. And she endures without complaint the indignities of a body that betrays her more often now.

At ninety-six, Mom knows better than most to seize the day, the hour, the moment. She squeezes every bit of juice out of life, clinging more than ever to the precious times.

Nobody—not a single guest—has enjoyed our recent family parties more than Mom. Nobody enjoys her seven great-grandchildren more than this doting, delighted lady who knows each child's exact birth date and disposition.

She had waited, she reminds us, for this fantastic dessert of life. With age comes privilege. But I know that the days are sometimes so long for Mom. I know that the nights are longer.

There are times when her high-rise apartment in Philadelphia must feel like a prison despite its sunny yellow walls lined with family photographs and, lately, the drawings of her great-grandchildren displayed as proudly as Picassos.

On good days, Mom sees friends. On her best days, she visits the fitness center in her apartment building and walks the treadmill. Yes, at ninety-six.

Still, as we greet the golden days of summer, I ache for Mom. I know how much she'd love to be jumping waves in her beloved ocean, bobbing in the surf like a child at play.

But there will be no more “dips” in the Atlantic. No more wave jumping for a lady of ninety-six.

Just lovely memories of the way it once was—down by the sea.

Sally Friedman

September Song

It's an annual pilgrimage, a rite of every fall. And it's one that I approach with mingled joy and dread.

The joy springs from my lifelong love affair with beaches and oceans. The dread comes from the inevitable parting, now that days are shorter and the sweaters have replaced the bathing suits in the bedroom drawer.

I was never good at endings.

So I travel on this pilgrimage to say good-bye to the beach alone. I snatch a few precious hours that seem harder and harder to claim in these days of constant connection with the world; spontaneity is elusive. Beaches and spontaneity should go together.

While I'd like to grab just a towel and dash off, age has brought a certain degree of prudence. These days, my September odyssey means toting along a beach chair, sunscreen, insect repellent, and a sensible lunch. Twenty years ago, I wouldn't have been so prudent.

As I drive along familiar roads with my car windows open and Barry Manilow on the tape player, I think of all the poetry and prose I wish I'd composed about the savage beauty of an ocean and the spell that a beach at sunset can cast on the most impoverished soul.

Out of habit and deep affection, I choose Long Beach Island, New Jersey, for my annual trek. Proximity counts too, but somehow, driving for more than sixty or seventy minutes to reach the ocean takes away some of the pleasure.

I always end up at the same beach, the one I've come to know best on this island. I couldn't tell you why I love this particular stretch of sand and dunes, except that it's familiar and fairly deserted.

The natives on Long Beach Island know this beach, too, and the few whom I'm apt to encounter on these autumnal trips tend to eye me warily. I am the usurper of their long-awaited peace and quiet after the summer invasion, the potential “foreigner” who may leave this special place less wonderful than I found it.

But I brace for the stares each year, and I remind myself that if I lived here year-round, I, too, would want the place to myself, come fall.

If history is prophecy, I will spend one hour of my last day at the beach this year staring at the ocean. I'll spend another hour reading, one more snoozing, and the last hour walking.

I will speak to no one.

I will eat ravenously of the lunch I've packed, and wish I'd packed more.

And I will invariably find some shells to carry back home with me. They will be carefully chosen, as if my very destiny hinged on their shape and form. I'll scour the beach like a pirate searching for booty because these will be, after all, tangible reminders of a place I love.

One shell from last year's haul sits on my dresser still. It's pink and fragile, curled around into itself, protected yet somehow vulnerable. Like the beach itself.

Yes, it's a long, long way from September to May. And winter looms large.

But for one beach lover, a solitary farewell to the beach will somehow stand as a reminder that it will all be there next year, waiting for me.

And that thought surely makes the waiting more bearable.

Sally Friedman