The ocean is my favorite place on earth (although I suppose that’s like saying 70% of the planet’s surface is my favorite place). In fact, I think it was love at first sight. My mom loves to tell the story of the winter when she and Dad first took me to the beach, right after I learned to walk. They plunked me down on the sand and watched as I immediately sprinted merrily toward the shoreline. They admired my stumbling eagerness until—
“She’s not going to stop, is she?”
“Nope.”
My parents were now sprinting after me, that precocious little toddler who was racing them to the water. And indeed, I won.
According to Mom, I hit a wave head-on, fell straight over into the freezing water, and sobbed all the way back to the car. Then I sobbed further because we were leaving, and I of course wanted to stay.
I have matured a fair amount since that wintry day in Bethany Beach. I generally bring a swimsuit…except for last week when I decided to swing by the beach on my way home from work. Having no swimwear, I merely stared at the warm sea until I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw my shirt off into the sand and sprinted for the ocean in a sports bra and cotton shorts. This is the closest thing I had to a suit at the time, and the ride home was as sandy and uncomfortable as it must have been years ago when I was a soaking little toddler.So. The next time I go to the beach, I intend to do it right. I’ll wait for that eighty-degree day, bring a towel, and then jump out of something like this:
