Amelia

            The familiar crunch underneath my feet is soothing, like coming home from an extended stay away from all familiarity. I watch as families begin to gather their belongings after a long day of basking in the hot Sun, playing amongst the waves that crash mightily onto the shore. The laughter rings out from children who tirelessly run after the seagulls and sandpipers that have come to scour the land for food. As the last of the people disperse, weary from the Sun soaking into their skin and the salt of the air enveloping them, I am left alone. I look out onto the horizon, its thick blue line marking where the ocean begins from my vantage point, and I ponder its vastness beyond what I can see. The waves gently roll onto the shoreline, and boats lazily float, precariously teetering on the edge of the ocean.

            The sun begins its slow dance of brilliant hues of reds, pinks, and oranges behind me, dipping down onto the marina. A charcoal-colored straight line down Atlantic Avenue from where I’m standing. In its shimmering wake, dolphin pods begin breaking the surface of the briny ribbons of greying blue and take their breaths of the atmosphere. The air smells of salt, fried fish from the restaurants that sit on the front porch of the ocean, and the faint aroma from the date palms that sway like liquid ballet dancers in the warm breeze. I walk barefoot towards the downward slope of the dunes and deftly make my way down towards the shoreline and sit. The sand beneath me shifts slightly, and I place my hand into its soft cushion of minuscule remnants of seashells and close my eyes. I am home. Here, beneath the cerulean, cloudless sky, is where I began.

            The waves begin to settle more, and the ocean begins to resemble a millpond. I sat perplexed at the beauty of a stillness that I have rarely seen. A seagull swoops down and quickly plucks its dinner from beneath the waves and dispatches its prey rapidly down its gullet. I bury my feet into the soft sand and wriggle them upwards so that only my red painted toenails are visible. In my memories, I can visualize a tanned, brunette girl running towards the ocean, then quickly sprinting back towards the shore in a game of tag. I smile at the squeals that she makes as the ocean finally catches up to her and rushes its icy water onto her legs, spraying her with its brackish kiss. The fish nets dragged across the ocean floor and swung back around, entrapping Drum, Trout, Flounder, and Whiting fish in their wake. A crab scuttles across the hard sand rich with seashells and puts up its claws in defense. A stalk of sea oat aided his return to the deep waters it called home. I am that child. This was my playground. My island home.

            My long, hot days playing amongst its shorelines. In the small pools of salt water, in the hurried creation of sand castles. My adolescent years sitting among the dunes and sharing tears with the silent ocean, my secrets safe within its waves. My adulthood is now eerily quiet as I sit alone with my old friend. No secrets to share, no laughter to be heard, just myself and my silent thoughts. My life on my little island is a memory, sweet and protected in my heart. A long-lost friend whom I visit when I return from my adventures away. It is never a stranger, always welcoming me home and into its fluid abyss, my beach. My ocean. My beginning.