First Travels

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep



Going to the beach at the end of our block was the place I traveled to most often as a child. That short trip allowed me to leave our overcrowded home and see the limitless horizon. From the age of six or seven we were able to go outdoors to play anywhere we could get to safely by foot or bike. I remember getting up early on sunny Saturdays, heading to the ocean by bike, riding to where the concrete dead-ended into beach plum and rosehips. I would drop the bike into the sand and walk up to the top of the dunes to check the waves. Even though I was never a surfer, I learned to notice what made good prospects, waves a decent height with a long clean roll, so that I could report back to whomever might need to know. If I was going back to the house for breakfast, I might meet a fellow early riser walking his dog who would ask, “How are the waves?” “Pretty choppy and broken up,” I’d say, instead of hello.

The beach was a place where I could walk all day if I wanted, although my feet would start to complain after a couple of miles of sand. Sometimes a group of us would travel too far along the edge, around jetty after jetty, to walk back. Then we would decide whose parent might be most willing to come rescue us and use one of the payphones on the boardwalk or in any close fast food shack to beg for a pick-up.

Although we lived on an island, I never felt like there was a limit to exploring and the ocean offered new possibilities of treasures on each stroll. Even the way the tide changed the texture of the beach would be different each day. A low tide might create a stretch of hard sand, great for running or drawing elaborate games of hopscotch. A high tide washing up against the soft sand, creating a little cliffs that would make walking tough, might offer the perfect timing to play a favorite sand castle game, where we tried to defend a walled city against a rising tide. We would imagine that we were protecting New York City and it was up to us to keep the millions from drowning. Inevitably, the water always won, but the struggle was as exciting as any disaster movie we imitated.

Maybe growing up with the Atlantic Ocean at the end of the street instilled my need to go outside in order to see what is inside. Going over the dunes to check the waves is a way to see which way my own tide is pulling and what treasures have come ashore.