I walk the two and a half blocks to the beach quickly, sidetepping small children and barely pausing and the crosswalks before I dart across them. My flip flops, cheap, picked up at the dollar store before this last minute trip, slap the wooden ramp to the boardwalk. I cross it, keeping my pace, and then the slap down the steps to the beach. I pause for a moment, finally still, slipping my sandals off and carrying them as walk in the cool sand, avoiding the bits of shell and seawee, until the waves are breaking only yards in front of me. I dash down to the water, dip my toes in the foam, then wal back up to the dry, loose sand. I let my sandals drop, then my body. I light a cigarette, and inhale slowly. As I exhale a stram of smoke, my body sinks onto the sand, and I feel my stress melt away.

*****

When I was 2, I spent my first week in Ocean Ciy, New Jersey. I would spend many more there, at least one a summer, sometimes the odd weekend, a holiday. That first week, though, was in a rented house, a duplex. Two apartments, on up, one down, two families. Mine, the five of us, were on the top. Another family, one I had never met, took the bottom: parents, their son, and his friends.

The house we were staying in was on Fourth Street, less than two blocks from the beach. There was a set of stairs, even with the front porch of the bottom level of the house, that led to the front door of the top part my family was staying in. I spend a lot of time sitting at the foot of those stairs that week.

I would spend all day at the beach with my family and another family, friends of my parents. At night, I would sit at the bottom of the steps, next to the porch full of boys. There was one in particular, there always is. The youngest, he was maybe 14 or so. He could look at me and smile. He had the most incredible blue eyes I’d ever seen. I fell in love with him that week.

At the end of the week, the day everyone had to vacate to make room for the new round of occupants, I got up before the sun. I knew some of the boys, including the one I’d come to think of as mine, were leaving early in the morning. The night before, I had actually sat on the porch with them, my sister, our friend Kimmie. At this age, I was still very shy when I was in a large group of people, especially boys, and I just say there, watching him, listening as everyone else talked. He would smile and me and I would love him a little more

Slipping out of the house so silently so my parents won’t hear me, ask me where I’m going, I wrapped myself in an oversided peach sweater that still smelled faintly of bug spray and summer nights. I sat there for what seemed like hours, until one of the other boys came strolling up the sidewalk from the corner store. He had a bottle of juice, wrapped in a brown paper bag. He studied me for moment before saying:

“He already left.”

At those words, I blushed, stammered something, some excuse for why I was sitting, in my pajamas and a sweater, on the stairs at 8 o’clock in the morning. As soon as he was out of sight, I flew back into the house, found my shoes, and walked to the beach. I sat on the sand, looking at the stretches of coastline, almost empty, save the locals, eople who liked to be at the beach before the tourists’ descend on it.

Looking at the ocean, listening to the waves crashed, the seagulls calls to each other, I felt a strange sense of peace wash over mer. I had just been, in my 12 year old mind, humiliated, but it didn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore. I scooped up handfuls of sand, letting the falling crystals hypnotize me; I felt calm. Just sitting there on the beach completely relaxed me.

It was like the beach was calling my name, telling me it would ease my troubles. I felt drawn to it, drawn to the smell and sounds I could feel sitting there. To this day, I roll down my window when I cross the Ninth Street Bridge, no matter what the weather or the season, and smell the salty air, and at that moment, I feel like I’m home, where I can relax and be myself.

*****

A few years later, when I was 16 or 17, my parents got tired of renting a house in Ocean City.  My dad’s company was doing well and, thanks to a tiny blue pill and a healthy stock market, we were able to buy our own place.  The top half a duplex, 13 blocks away from the first one.

I drive down Asbury Avenue, make two quick turns into the alleyway behind the house and park my car.  The stairs are on the right of the house.  Up, past the family who lives, year-round, below us, up to the front door with the seashell plaque hanging on it, reading 1707.  The door opens into a 2 by 2 foryer.  To the right is the kitchen, living room/dining room, and the door leading to the front balcony, which overlooks Asbury Avenue and the little diner, searving only breakfast and lunch, across the street.  To the left are the bedrooms, two smaller ones my brother, sister and I occupied on family vacations, the bathroom we shared, and my parents bed and bathroom.  There is a balcony over the back, over the alleyway, where you can hear the ocean if you stand out there.

First things first, I walk to my room, two twin beds, a dresser, a mirror.  Nothing fancy is needed at the beach.  My bed is closest to the balcony, the ocean, the beach.  I drop my bag on it and pull a light jacket over my t-shirt and shorts.  Opening the door, I step onto the balcony.  In the fading sunlight, I smell the salt, hear the waves, feel the summer, almost over and trying to hold on for just a few more days.  Inside, the only thing I hear is my breathing.  I shove my cigarettes and lighter in one pocket, keys and cell phone on the other, and walk back down the hallway and out the front door.

*****

The beach has always been the place where I go to relax.  I an be alone, with friends, with family, it doesn’t matter.  I can be in North Carolina, New Jersey or Washington State, as long as there is sand and aves, I’m happy.  I can sit for hours on the beach, watching the waves break.  It’s therapeutic, like I’m pulled into a trance and my mind goes blank, freeing me.  I forget about a bad grade, a fight with my father, a nasty comment from a coworker.

There’s a picture of me, I was three or four.  I’m wearing a bright yellow tank suit, my pale blond hair in pigtails.  I’m swining in my dads arms, my feet kicking in the foam of the waves as they washed onto the beach.  The look on my face is pure joy.

I remember how my mom used to joke that I was half fish.  Maybe it has something to do with astrology, being a Water Sign.  Maybe it’s my genes, 4 aunts and uncles swam competitivly when they were growing up.  Maybe I like the smell of chlorine, or salty air, the way the sand gets so hot, my feet feel like their burning, or concrete, cooled from the water of splashing kids.  Or maybe I just really am part fish.

I grew up in the water, starting swim lessons when I was five, joining the swim team when I was six.  For a while I swam year round, and got to travel a bit for competitions.  I loved the swim team, being in the pool in the morning, when the air was still cool.  Shivering at competitions when the sky was grey and cloudy.  Waiting around, playing endless card games with friends, trying not to sneak too many snacks, or I wouldn’t swim as fast.

The real treat for me, though, would be the end of the summer, when I got to go to the shore for a week.

I grew up going to Ocean City, Maryland.  I was so young then, I don’t remember much more than what’s in the picture.  It was my mom and dad, my sister, and a babysitter.  My sister was afriad of the ocean so the grown ups would dig a pit in the sand, line it with a tarp and fill it, our own little beach front pool.  Once my brother was born, we started going to the Pocono’s with some family.  They didn’t have an ocean there, but I made do with the cold, clear lake water, pebbles instead of sand.  When my grandparents moved to North Carolina, we started going down there for our weeks vacation.  My grandfather, a former Marine, would get us on to the local base there and go to the beach.  I had my ocean back.

I miss North Carolina the most when I’m not there.  The beach was so different from what I was used to, the water there warm and clear.  The sand was whiter, the beaches less crowded.  The last few summers, we would rent a house on Emerald Isle, a little place with a private beach, just my family, a few others from the houses scattered there.  It was quiet, peaceful, fun.  It was like we owned the beach.

And now, for the past few years, I’ve been going to Ocean City, New Jersey every summer, the odd weekend I can escape.

*****

As I stub out my third cigarette, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket.  I pull it out; sighing when I see it’s a call from home.  My mother, who I assumed this to be, rarely just called to say hi.  I’ve been accustomed to answering the phone to a barrage of questions about where I am, who I’m with, what I’m doing, why I didn’t do something, when I’ll be home.  I asked myself why I even brought my cell phone here with me, but I know I have to answer it, she won’t stop calling until I do.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”  Her voice screeches over the line.

“Sitting on the beach, why?”  I pull out another ciagrette.  I know this is going to be a fun conversation.

“You were supposed to call when you got there.  Remember?”  There’s an edge in her voice, like she’s wound so tightly, waiting for a reason to snap.

“Sorry.  I forgot.”

“Wht do you mean forgot?  How can you forget to make a simple phone call?  I was worried about you!  You never listen to me.  You just go off into your own little world….”  I tune her out as she goes on and on, focusing on the expanse in front of me.

Now that the moon has pretty much risen, the ocean is a dark, murky green, with the pale white caps.  If I turn around I can see the lights from those lucky enough to have houses on the beach, right there with the best views.  From where I am, I can faintly hear people on the boardwalk, laughing, talking.  My mother is still in my ear.

A sense of peace washes over me.  I feel protected by the water in front of me, the sand behind me.  No one can find me unless I want them to.

“Terri?  Terri, are you listening to me?” she squawks.

“Yeah, Mom.  I’m listening.”

I feel free.