Ride the Wave

When I was a kid, my family went to the beach once a year. We lived just about two and a half hours from my family's favorite ocean spot but I grew up with parents who didn't have a ton of extra cash on hand for niceties like vacations, nor an interest in adventure. This annual trip filled me with such anticipation and excitement.

To prepare for the trip my mom, all the aunties, and lady cousins took a day trip to town to go food shopping. Then, they returned home and started the sandwich production line by making dozens of ham and cheese sandwiches with all the fixins'- you know- mayonnaise. Some sandwiches included a big slice of beefsteak tomato. The sandwiches were individually wrapped in tin foil, saran wrap or maybe it was wax paper. Around the time the sun set, the ladies' hands worked faster (with the help of a cigarette and some coffee) to finish the sandwiches, clean the coolers and pack the beach bags.

Being the early riser that I am, I was always up in time to put my swimsuit on while the ladies finished packing the chips and soda (I don't ever recall any bottles of water making the trip) and adding the ice to the coolers before loading the sandwiches.

The minutes felt like hours to me because all of the other cousins slept while I looked out the window at the cars on the highway, excitedly pointing at the out-of-state license plates and feeling so worldly when we crossed not one, but two state lines ourselves. The adults would count clouds, hoping any that popped up would dissipate and not turn into storm clouds that would ruin our one day of beach fun.

We drove convoy-style, with up to 20 plus relatives packing into half a dozen or more cars, keeping one another in each other's site for the entire trip. Remember, these were the days, before GPS navigation systems, and the adults had to rely on ye olde paper maps, memory, and an occasional stop at a gas station, for directions.

Mom and the ladies had a particular system once we hit the sand and it involved no sand ever touching the top side of the sheets and blankets. Shoes were placed in corners and the coolers positioned between the families. The kids would kick off their sandals and run for the water, depositing flying sand on the moms as they spread baby oil on their shoulders. I could not wait to feel the ice cold water hit my ankles and the dads usually held the hands of the kiddos (their two jobs on the trip- drive and hold kids' hands in the water) as we squealed, inching deeper and deeper into the waves. The moms would tip toe in, wrapping their arms around their waists for warmth and from modesty, pushing kids' away but also running after them and scooping them up if toppled by a wave.

To this day, one of the sweetest sensations to me is being in the ocean, my body movements dictated by the waves. I remember the year that I finally figured out how to let go of my dad's hand and not eat sand, at least not every time. I felt strong and smart and in control when I learned how to stand like a rock and push out past the breaking point. It was then that I could relax and ride the rolling waves, lay back and scan the clouds, and forget that anything existed other than this place and this moment. I loved when we'd all be out, wading in the waves and one would break early. We'd all shout as the water crashed down on us and then look around to see who made it and who washed up on the shore, covered in sand, likely with some scrapes, always disoriented, and if a mom, maybe a boob popped out of the top of her suit. I fell victim to these waves from time to time but I had a trick. When the wave was just about to break, when I could see the inside curling, I'd push my feet and bum toward the wave and then downward, letting the momentum roll me, toward the beach, and then I'd land back on my feet, just in time for the wave to have crashed past me. I'd whip my knotted hair out of my face, across my back, and look around with pride. I always slept on the way home, content, sun burned, with a wad of sand in the crotch of my swimsuit.

At eight years old, I knew the secret to life. I knew that I couldn't control what hit me, but I knew which waves to ride in and which to roll with. I knew that pushing past the breaking point required me to be strong, balanced and fearless. I also knew that the secret to finding that place in the world where all is peaceful and time stops means that you don't stay at the breaking point all of the time.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that secret to life. I became more like the ladies on the trip. I stopped thinking about riding the waves and focused more on keeping the sand off of my blankets. I spent too much time packing sandwiches and sunblock. (Sorry baby oil, times have changed!) I forgot how to ride the waves and instead stood in perpetuity at the breaking point. I fought the force of the tide, letting it beat into me, pushing me down into the sand over and over again, standing up only feeling disillusioned and confused. I forgot how to roll with the wave, to never let the big crashes take me down.

Life as a mom often feels like a tidal wave, a hurricane. I'm often afraid that I'm treading water, that I'm not strong enough to withstand the impact of the waves that are ever-crashing into me.

It's time to re-learn the lessons of my annual childhood beach trip. It's time to push past the breaking point. It's time again to roll with the waves.

-I dedicate this essay to my cousin Megan, who rode every wave with me on these beach trips, ate those mayo sandwiches next to me, and journeyed home with as much sand in her crotch as I did. May we both remember to always ride the waves.