From Here, You Can Almost See the Sea

I had a light pink room with purple violets stencilled in a border around the tops of all four walls. There were two large windows, one that looked out the front of the house toward the ocean, and one on the wall where my bed was overlooked the rental cottage next to us. If my room got too stuffy during the day, I could open the windows to catch a breeze off the ocean, and at night, I would sleep with them up so that I could fall asleep listening to the waves. Funny how, back when I was little, it didn't scare me to sleep with the windows open (and now it terrifies me), but then again, I was three stories off the ground with my parents nearby.

The only scary thing about the beach house was that, since it was up on pylons (which my seven-year-old self translated into "pilings"), our house shook constantly. When the washing machine was on its spin cycle, the whole house swayed back and forth, gently at first and then growing increasingly more violent as the cycle neared completion. The wind could be a little frightening, too; it would howl around the eaves at night, louder than any other wind I've ever heard, and it would shake the house horribly. We never had the balls (or the stupidity, for that matter) to try to outlast a hurricane in that house--we always dutifully evacuated, the car loaded down with photo albums and insurance forms--but if we had, I'm sure the wind would have given us a run for our money.

I wish we'd lived at the beach at a time in my life when I was old enough to appreciate it. I came home from school each day, grabbed a snack, and took my dog for a long run on the beach, even when it was raining. We would sit alone on the sand dykes, her paws crossed like a modern day Sphynx, and I would pull the sandspurs out of her paws when we got back to the house.

I really miss the sand in my shoes.