Seeing the beach as is without expectations
Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund
Whenever I see pictures my friends post of their beach vacations, I know I’m supposed to be jealous. Every time I agree to visit someone at the beach, however, I feel as if it’s a spiritual exercise in patience and submission.
I could blame Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” The Beach Boys, Dick Dale, or any 1960s surf movies for my aversion to seaside vacationing. Having grown up landlocked, I’m more inclined to hike in cargo shorts than sunbathe in a bikini.
At the beach, there’s so much pressure to have fun and be sexy while doing it. You’re supposed to play volleyball and giggle, not focus on the fact that every time you go jellyfish find you and sting you or how you can feel sand in your teeth the whole time.
It’s not that I am too shy to go out in a bathing suit. Although I find it weird to hang out nearly nude with a bunch of strangers, I can do it. I’m also one of the few redheads I know who tans, as long as I apply SPF 50 sunblock a few times an hour. Hot weather doesn’t bother me, either. I lived in Texas too long to find the summer beach oppressive. I’m not afraid of the vastness of the ocean or drowning. But it has never been interesting enough to me to give it a chance.
Despite all of my gripes against the beach, I planned a day trip last week that involved a stop at one on Long Island’s North Fork. My spouse and I promised our daughter she’d be able to see the ocean, even though it was technically a tidal estuary. To her, that’s ocean enough.
As soon as she saw the expanse of the water and the biggest sandbox of her life, she rejoiced. The waters were cold, but she didn’t care. Cautiously suspecting lingering animal life in the seashells, she avoided them and the dead man’s fingers seaweed floating in clumps near the shore. When she mustered the bravery to request walking by herself, the small waves pushed her tiny body underwater.
It only took a minute for her to recover until she was ready to keep walking toward buoys marking the edge of the swimming area, her damp grip on my hand tighter than before.
We took a break, but snacks didn’t interest her as much as pouring and stacking cups of sand. Before I could finish a few grapes, she wanted to return to the water.
“I like your ocean,” she said, like an extraterrestrial visitor assessing the quality of the planet’s scenery for the first time.
While she and her dad walked ahead, I began to collect mermaid’s toenails and scallop shells. I’ll never be a beach babe and I don’t foresee any resort vacations in my future. I still prefer the mountains and forests, but while I watched her that day, I forgot about everything I’d associated with the beach. I didn’t think about how my bathing suit fit or how a piña colada would have tasted just right.
The way she experienced it with only her senses to guide her allowed me to appreciate the beach for what it is — a body of water so large and incomprehensible that it’s worthy of awe when it meets a stretch of crushed rocks and sea animals older than I can imagine. The beach became part of nature again, not just a destination, and I can appreciate that.
Before heading home in the afternoon, we stopped at a diner where she forfeit her meal but stole her daddy’s grits and biscuits. After cleaning the bowl, she pronounced the day “good,” and I had to agree.
Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund is a former news reporter for the Maryville Daily Forum, now living and writing in New York City.
