Beach Memories
Surf green Chevy
an hour and a half to the edge.
Sometimes, out of nowhere, Mom would just say,
“You want to go to the beach?”
And I’d shout back,
“Yeah!”
The kind of yeah! that made the whole morning buzz with promise.
We left early, before the sun had fully warmed the pavement. Mom wore her scarf tied under her chin and those big round sunglasses, like something out of a beach movie, though she wasn’t trying to be stylish. Just practical.
The ‘57 Chevy — surf green, four doors — clicked into gear like always, and we rolled down the windows because that’s all we had. Air conditioning was something for other people, or other cars.
The road was the same as always — two lanes, lined with pines and fields, the occasional roadside stand with boiled peanuts or cold RC Cola in a cooler. I didn’t talk much, just leaned into the breeze, the vinyl seat already hot through my shirt.
Crossing the old drawbridge was how I always knew we were close. The water below shimmered — not quite ocean, not quite river — and the smell changed. Brinier. Heavier. The kind of smell that let you know you were leaving one world and entering another.
Mom always said the water down there wasn’t fit to drink. She’d say it like a warning and a joke at the same time, like she didn’t expect me to drink it, but also wouldn’t put it past me. I never did.
The radio barely came in by then. All we could hear was the hum of the road, the wind through the windows, and the occasional creak of the car settling into the day.
She never swam —
just watched, and smiled, and read.
She parked near the pier, just like always — knew the spot without needing to look. Gravel popped under the tires, and the wind came in sharp with salt and sunscreen and something fried from the snack stand.
The beach was already busy — radios low, kids digging, umbrellas staked at odd angles. But it didn’t feel crowded. It felt like a place where everyone knew how to keep to their own kind of peace.
Mom didn’t need much. One towel to sit on, one to cover her legs, a paperback thick with dog-eared corners, and a bottle of Coke already sweating in her hand. She’d sit and watch, maybe read a little, and every so often call out not to go too far.
I ran down without waiting, kicked off my shoes before they hit the sand. The heat of it bit at first, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the color of the water, the shine of the sky, and the sound of the waves — loud, but never angry.
There was no schedule, no plan. Just the long, bright hours ahead of us.
The waves were bigger than I remembered — always were. They came in crooked and hard, crashing fast, curling back like they didn’t quite mean it. I didn’t care. I went in anyway.
No board, no float, just me and the day. Just saltwater and whatever I could turn it into.
Sometimes I’d lie flat where the water thinned and let the foam chase up my chest — like I was a frogman, making my way to the beach, making sure the coast was clear.
No one else knew what I was doing, but I did. That was enough.
Other times I’d run full tilt into the break, let it knock me down, drag me under, spit me back out like I’d earned it. I always came up grinning, eyes burning, hair full of salt and sand.
There were other kids, but they blurred into background noise — like gulls or splashing or wind. We didn’t need names.
Every now and then I’d check over my shoulder. She was always there, under the brim of her hat, legs stretched, paperback folded in her lap like a door half open. Watching without calling. Letting me go as far as I thought I could.
And that was enough.
Mustard on my hands,
Coke fizzing in the shade.
I sat on the edge of the boot — that’s what we called it — the open trunk of the ‘57 Chevy, feet dusty with sand, towel across my shoulders like a cape. The metal was warm from the sun, but not too hot to sit. Just enough to remind you where you were.
The hot dog came from the stand up near the pier. Wrapped in thin paper, slouched in the bun, mustard already running down my fingers before the second bite. Perfect.
Mom stood close, sipping from her bottle of Coke, watching the street more than the waves now. She wasn’t hovering — just there. Which was enough.
I chewed slow. The sea breeze was still on my skin, the hum of radios mixing with gulls and laughter from the dunes. I knew we’d be heading home before long, but I wasn’t ready. I never was.
I sat there a little longer after I finished, licking mustard from my thumb, watching the sun slide down past the pier like it had somewhere else to be.
Salt on my tongue,
the road humming home.
We piled into the Chevy, salt still drying on our skin, sand tucked into every fold of my swim trunks. The air inside was thick with heat and the faint smell of sunscreen mixed with worn vinyl.
I stretched out across the back seat, legs long and sticky from the sun, my hair stiff with salt and grit. No seat belts to hold me — just the hum of the road and the steady thrum of the engine.
Mom drove steady, scarf tied tight, eyes calm but quiet tired. We didn’t say much; the day had said everything already.
Outside, the world moved slow — pine trees, water towers, fields rolling by like old postcards.
I curled into myself, salty and sandy, feeling the hum of that old Chevy carry us home. The road pulled us away from the sea, but the salt stayed, tangled deep inside.