There’s a point every spring where I have to go to the beach. Before Nate, it used to be in March. That first sunny, blue-skied day. We’d drive down, cross over the bridge from Rumson or Little Silver or wherever the hell that is that takes you into Sea Bright, and as I’d see the water, my heart would expand, squish my lungs, and I’d smile smile smile. Then we’d get on the actual beach and freeze to death. One year we brought Phoebe pug and laughed as she tried to figure out how to walk on the squishy sand, her ears blown back by the breeze.
It happened later this year, but it was no less sweet. The glinty water, the briny smell, the several oddly mutated starfish, the beautiful shell formations from the tide, the random dogs and their owners.
And now my little man, busy busy busy with that bucket and rake. And a handy old clam shell too. Oh first beach visit, thank you.