Sitting on the beach with my toes buried beneath the warm blanket of soft sand, I look out onto the Atlantic water. A wave rises and curls onto itself before dissipating along the shore into a brilliant, white foam. The salty smell of the sea fills my lungs. My ears ring with the sound of laughing children, screaming seagulls and the muffled, rhythmic roar of the ocean. It is a hot August afternoon; the summer is coming to a close and my family finds itself, once again, on the shore of Assateague, the barrier island protecting the eastern coast of southern Maryland and northern Virginia.
It was on this beach 14 years ago when I felt the ocean for the first time -- felt it with all my senses. The cold water sending goosebumps along my skinny pale legs, the wind carrying the smell of seaweed, and the taste of the salty water on my lips. I remember the sound of Mama's distant voice telling me to "come out of the water and put on sunscreen." Dan, my mother's cousin visiting from Romania, would hold both of my hands and lift me up with each wave. The soles of my feet would abandon the hard ocean floor and, for a second, I was flying until the wave passed and my feet made contact with the sand once again. I remember looking out onto the never-ending horizon, realizing for the first time how big the world really was, and searching for a trace of the land I was told was on the other side. It was the summer of 2001, I was a six year-old Romanian girl who had found home in America.
The passing of time brought about a lot of change. By the time of our next visit to Assateague, I was already starting to forget my native language. Yet, despite all of the changes happening in my world, the island seemed to be the one thing that remained the same. It wasn't until my sixth grade science class that the impermanence of it all struck me. We were studying barrier islands in the context of global warming and the threat posed to them by rising sea levels. I learned that the place I loved so much will one day disappear, possibly within the next century. From that moment on, the island was forever changed in my eyes.
Now, as I sit here on this beach watching the children splash in the water, I cannot help but feel the gentle hand of nostalgia tugging at my heart. How I long to be one of those wide-eyed, curious children again -- so carefree and happy, unburdened by the reality of the world and unaware that some day this, too, will all be a memory.
