There is nowhere I feel more beautiful than when I’m at the beach. The warm sun beaming down on my strong body, grains of sand clinging to my damp skin, my wet locks blowing wildly in the wind. I love the force of the ocean, the crash of waves, knocking me off my feet, floating on the salty water, twirling and spinning like a seal. I float on my back, my red toenails peeking out above the water. I spin, around and over, over and around, undulating with the rolling waves. I allow the current to carry me in them I swim back out, pushing my body against the determined force of the water.
I decided to take advantage of being on the East coast to visit friends in New York. Megga asked me what I thought about taking the ferry to the Jersey Shore on Saturday. Nothing sounded more appealing. A boat ride, warm sun, swimming, paradise.
The ride over was delightful. We stretched out on the top deck with a glass of chardonnay. Two Greek men struck up a conversation with us, making the trip seem shorter. Past the Statue of Liberty, past the burroughs, out on open water, docking at the Jersey shore, at Sandy Hook.
I returned from the water, laughing from pure joy. Megga called me close. “We need to make a decision,” she began, complete seriousness veiling her otherwise laughing face. “We can either stay here and you’ll have plenty to write about or we can flee fast.” The family she dubbed Sandy Crack was next to us. My educated guess is that they were locals. Grandpa, husband and wife. Grandpa was a thin man with a military tattoo engraved on his left bicep. Nasal tones and dropped r’s boomed our way. No one spoke in normal voices. Loud, loud, loud. Husband, white belly folding over too low, too tight blue jean shorts, bellowed, ” We enjoyin’ a day at the shoe-ur, pops. Who’s comin’ to the wah-ta? Huh? Huh?” Megga cast me a look. “Just call me Ishmael,” she mouthed.