The sun is hot, but I don't mind. Laying my towel on the old wall, I take my shirt off. My black bathing suit instantly soaks in what seems like all the heat from the sky and I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to jump in the ocean, its waves crashing just a few feet away. I manage to hold off, pushing myself up on the wall. In the process, I scrape my knee, but the pain subsides quickly and I sit on my towel. A warm breeze blows my hair, already plastered to my sweaty neck and I look up towards the sky. I watch a bird — a seagull to be exact — dive bomb the sandbar. It goes underwater for a second before reappearing and flying away with a fish in its mouth. Nature, I thought as I inhaled deeply, allowing the salt air deep into my body.
I stand up, and walk towards the water's edge. It is dead low tide, so I have to walk pretty far before my toes finally get the taste of the ocean they have for so long been yearning for. It is early July, the day is hot, but the water is still cold. Not many people are brave enough to swim yet; it's still too early in the season. However, down the beach, I watch two kids splashing by the water's edge. They are young, probably two and four, both laughing. They were trying to build a sandcastle, but each time, they seemed satisfied; another wave would destroy the castle. The pile of sand would be flattened into the beach, some of it taken out with the incoming tide. So is the rhythm of the ocean, I thought to myself as I pulled my hair back, tying it loosely behind my head. Bending down, my finger tips touch the water. The shock of the cold runs through my veins, almost electrifying me.
I love the ocean. It is almost impossible to put into words how much I love the ocean. The normalcy of it, the consistency, the never changing routines of the tides; I love it all. Born in Connecticut and relocated to Michigan at the young age of five, the ocean has always kept its power over me. It captivates every single one of my senses: scooping them up, mushing them around inside of me, and then putting them back. But never in the same way, in the same place. Every time I go to the ocean, I never leave the same person. The water changes me, matures me in a way nothing else can.
Despite the fact I was raised in the Midwest, I see myself as a New Englander. Coming back to the shoreline every summer has instilled in me a great sense of the people and culture so deeply ingrained in the New England way of life. I have always preferred the muck of the sand under my toes rather than the muck of lakes that fill the dips and divides of Michigan. I never understood why people stop on the street only to strike up a conversation.
I step into the water, the feeling of the stones familiar under my feet. I smile, knowing that it is not much farther now. The water is cold, but I've never felt more alive than in this moment. I inhale deeply, then pushing off the ground with my feet, I dive into the water. It's cold on my face and stomach as every part of me submerges. Even though the salt stings, my eyes are open, allowing me to feel even more of everything around me. I hold myself under water for a few seconds, listening to the stillness of the world. From far away, I hear the distant hum of a motor as it propels a boat across the Sound somewhere. I exhale, watching the bubbles rise up from my nose. Realizing I can no longer hold my breath, I rise like a warrior out of the sea, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I walk back to shore, now cooled off and can’t help but look at the house that once belonged to Mary Jane, an old friend and neighbor, that stood strong, protected behind the sea wall. It is small; two floors, two bedrooms and one bathroom. Its decks are old, but they seem inviting. The giant windows in the living room are great for watching the sea. They frame the landscape like a natural picture frame. Behind the cottage, not visible to me, is the Thistle; my grandparents', Aga’s and Gaga’s, cottage.
It was in that small, gray cottage where I had spent the last 17 summers of my life, and my parents and grandparents had spent countless more. It was in that cottage that my parents had come with their friends the night of their high school graduation in 1985, celebrating their independence and achievements together, oceanside. The Thistle was where I had spent my first summer, under the protective cover of beach umbrellas and floppy hats my mother insisted on buying for me. It was there that my brother, Andy, and I first learned how to swim on a warm summer day during low tide with our grandfather next to us, vowing to keep us afloat if we couldn't ourselves, where our first motor boat was stored in the driveway, where American flags would line the stone pathway to the front door every Fourth of July acting as a greeting to our friends and family who gathered in the house to celebrate America’s independence and watch fireworks. It has changed over the years. As Clinton has become more populated and built up, it seems the Thistle has shrunk; the giant mansions over taking my small, quaint cottage. I didn't mind, for the Thistle has shaped me, taught me, helped me to grow. That is changing now. Mary Jane’s cottage, rather than the Thistle, will be my new summer home. Aga and Gaga just bought it.
The thought of saying goodbye to the Thistle makes me sad; after all, there were so many amazing moments that occurred between those four walls, so many memories. But, the thought of a new, ocean front adventure also excited me, for this had been my dream, the family’s dream, for so many years and now it was finally happening. Clinton would always be home to me and my summers. It has grown and changed just like Andy and I have, but it will always be home.
The sun is still hot as wrap myself in the towel. It is midday and the tide is coming in now. Later, the beach where I am standing will be gone, under the water. The kids I spotted before still play by the waters edge, still attempting to build a sand castle, and still failing every time a wave brushes the shore. I let out a laugh, I can’t help it. I lean against the stone wall, still watching them. I smile, thinking about how many memories the two of them will form during their summers in Clinton just as Andy and I have.
