see you by the seashore
There’s something about being from the suburbs that automatically makes beaches (and other things, like forts) instantly cool. Cool in a way that makes me want to wiggle my toes into the sand, run up direly close to the water and laugh because the ocean can’t tag me back as I skip away like a five-year-old.
I discovered beaches in college. I know what you’re thinking: that’s pretty badass. Like in a way that Christopher Columbus or Sir Francis Drake were badass. (There is always something inherently badass about seeing a beach for the first time when you’re at least 20.) Well, my discoveries were admittedly a little less glorious than my 15th and 16th century counterparts–I didn’t have my own boat (I did have a car), and the beaches already had names (some that I certainly wouldn’t have chosen). But the discoveries came in spurts, where I visited a ton of beaches, one after another, in a span of three or so years. Up and down the California coast, and then others elsewhere. By the time I was done, the beaches all sort of looked the same: salty ocean breeze, white sand–maybe rocks instead of sand if you were up north, miles of water sweeping up and down a pretty Pacific coast. I still like having the water brush up against my toes (I squeal, without fail) and I still like plopping myself into the sand to watch kids half my height struggle with opening their kites–the novelty of these things hasn’t worn off just yet. But, in some way, every beach is a reminder of me wanting my naivete back: to go and see, wide-eyed and amazed, because it’s the first time ever and, wow, everything looks so beautiful, and let me find a seashell to take home, please.
I have an informal rock collection. I don’t know where it is, but I know that I have one. I usually stumble upon it when I’m looking for things, like unpacking my suitcase or cleaning out the linen closet, and find something inhumanly heavy. My rock collection has been years in the making. I snatch rocks from places I want to remember, making me think that it was probably a good idea to take up writing and photography. When I was 7 (or so), I took a rock from our backyard before my parents did some landscaping. When I was 19, I took a rock (more like 3 boulders) from the Grand Canyon. The rock from when I was 7 gave me ringworm, and the rocks from the Grand Canyon didn’t. In 7th grade, I classified rocks I’d jumped out of the car for while in Death Valley. It was for a science project on taxonomic classification.
When I was 7, I also collected seashells, but because I didn’t live near any beaches, my seashell collection suffered terribly. Instead, I relied on the excursions of others, asking them to bring me back relics from any shores they frequented. I managed to collect a grand total of two, only because my dad went to Hawaii, brought back shells for both my brother and me, and I somehow convinced my brother to let me keep his in my room for good measure, or extra security, or something.
I still like beaches. Rocks and shells, not so much. The last time I tried bringing a shell home, it broke in my camera bag, and I think I’m done with them now. I’m also thinking that seeing freezing water and an overcast sky at 6 am would be nice. Maybe I’ll do that.