Children of the Waves

We've been visiting beaches together for twenty-five years, he and I--my whole life and most of his, a quarter century.

Our mother and father, the originators of this beach visiting, had loaded us up in their car, driving us to the water's edge. To this day we sit on the same sides of the car as we did when we were small.

Most of "our" beaches have been rocky or coarse; this was one of our first sandy, smooth, barefoot-friendly ones. The grains of sand squealed as they massaged our running feet. We played frisbee, he played guitar, I drew (or attempted to do so), we pieced together crab corpses hollowed out by the waves and the sand.

Hours later, hungry, we drove to another beach just down the road, for we cannot seem to get enough of the good sea air, and head for home reluctantly only when we are cold.