The life of a beach bum

When I was a young kid, I hated the beach. We lived faraway from the beach, four to five hours away, but the couple of times that we went, I whined and complained about having to walk in the hot sand. I would be a mess until we reached the shoreline, where I loved digging and making sandcastles in the sand.

I loved playing with my brothers too, but they viewed me more as a bother, something to be overcome, then a playmate. Oh the challenges of being the youngest child!

My brothers couldn’t wait to dive into the water, spending hours bodysurfing and jumping in the waves. My mom would eventually have to call them out of the water. The power and ferocity of the waves, though, scared me to death. I wanted to like the ocean like my brothers, but I had bad thoughts about the waves and the unseen gremlins in the water carrying me deep out into the ocean, never to be seen again. I could always feel the gremlins grab my legs when I went into the water. They were there, I just wasn’t quick enough to see them. (Yes, this is proof that I had an active imagination at an early age and was always meant to be a writer.)

For that reason, I gave the ocean a wide berth. My viewpoint was: I’ll stay over here, you stay over there, everyone stay in their corner, nice-like, and no one will get hurt. Oh, how times have changed. I can’t get enough of the ocean now.

I love the crash of the waves on the shore and the squawking of the seagulls. I love the ocean breeze and and cool sea water on your skin. I’m my most peaceful, my most calm, sitting on the beach, closing my eyes, and listening to the rhythmic sound of the water hitting the shore.

We took a week off and went to the beach last week; it was exactly what the doctor ordered: Life as a beach bum. Oh, I’ll never be a California surfer, but I still love the water. I even enjoyed getting up early and watching the morning sun make its first appearance for the day.

Here’s hoping you find your calm spot.