I have lived near the beach all of my life. I was born in Wilmington, North Carolina, and one of my earliest memories is of digging my fingers into the warm, wet sand. I’ve heard stories of when my mother used to sit me at the water’s edge, and I’d laugh and play as the surf washed up around my chubby legs.
In our elementary school days, my friends and I would spend our summers at the beach, taking turns burying each other in the sand up to our chins. We collected many different types of seashells--pointed, spiral ones that we used to call a unicorn’s horn, conch shells, sand dollar pieces, and not to forget the big beautiful ones that made great necklaces. But mostly, we played in the water, jumping over the high waves, or sitting in the surf as the wav
Now that I’m in college, and working I have little time to visit the beach during the day.
es knocked us all around, and screaming at the rush of salt water up our nose.
Though I have always loved the beach, I don’t think it has always loved me back. I can recall quite vividly the horrible, gritty crunch of the mouthful of sand I took when I was little. I just had to find out what the stuff tasted like! I can still taste the burning salt water I gulped a time or two, or three when I was knocked down by a wave. I also haven’t forgotten how hard it is to rid my curly hair of sand, or the irritation of it in the bottom of my swimsuit, or the painful, stinging cuts on my knees and feet from tumbling in the surf. Oh yeah, I can’t possibly forget about the huge beach bag
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