Childhood
It started in the summertime.
The beaches, always warm with the balmy sand between my toes, made me feel at ease as a child. They still do, as I found out last December, even after all the years between the naivete of a child and the quiet retrospection that an adult can afford. I have more sense than to think beaches can solve all my problems (if only!)–that they’re the only thing separating me from life’s complications.
As a child, I spent frequent summers traveling back and forth between the Florida beaches and my home state of Oklahoma, going from where the sun shone down, beating, on the pavement below to the Sunshine State where it settled instead on the push and pull of waves crashing against the shore. My sister, Sydney, and I spent hours in the car, arguing over music or games, counting the pastures that flew by the windows, naming off the letters of the alphabet with each passing license plate, street sign, truck banner. I didn’t question my privilege to explore the open world, then–I didn’t think to, not at the time. I was lucky–am lucky. So many of those memories have blurred together over time, an oil painting smudged by the hand of time.
But I do remember the laughter.
One summer in particular, my family–made up of my mother, father, and younger sister, before middle school, before the divorce–traveled to Clearwater Beach. To a eight- or nine-year-old, a beach was a beach, but the white sands of the shore were hot against my bare feet, scorching in some places and cool in the shade. We had rounded the corner of the entrance after unpacking the car, and I remember looking out on the shore, seeing the families situated near the water, the receding waters of the low tide, and thinking how big the world looked when you were faced with a horizon you couldn’t see over it. My sister and I squealed and kicked off our shoes, abandoning the water shoes (I had always hated them) to opt for the feeling of the fine white sand beneath the soles of our feet. We jumped in the water almost as soon as our parents put down our bags, giggling the whole time.
We collected shells–loads of them, broken and battered, pink or blue or black or white. It didn’t matter. Everything was beautiful. Everything deserved to be looked at, held, and cherished. I chased the fish in the water or snorkeled my way through the section of the beach we camped at. Sydney would sit with me sometimes, sprawled on the sand nearest to the water, and build sandcastles. The whole family would take excursions on some of the boats in the area, depending on the year. We whale watched. We visited isles. We boogie-boarded. There was so much to do, to see, to experience, that the world was full of endless possibilities.
I never wanted to leave.
I would stand at the edge of the water and look out onto the horizon, wondering if I would ever get past it.
And maybe that’s where the story starts.
Not with finally, finally moving forward near the end of college, after feeling stagnant for too long. Not with the side trips and state lines scurried over on quick trips through the long weekends. Not with traveling the countryside in high school as nerdy marching band kid, too awkward an self-conscious to stand up for herself. Not with walks through the patch of trees at the back of the neighborhood, exploring the only wilderness I could get my hands on.
It started with the sands of Florida.
With chasing crabs in the dark.
With the taste of salt on my tongue.
With the quiet wonder of a child.
Sam.