Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (16 page)

Helen Colella

Eternal Love Affair

W
e do not remember days; we remember
moments.

Cesare Pavese

Sand and the Albemarle Sound were the highlights of my summers. The topaz waters that seem to beckon one to swim and always capture your heart exist along the shore of the inner banks of the North Carolina coast. The Native Americans who lived near the waters and ate the grapes along the woodlands knew this land was special. And now I know it as well.

The Legion Beach of the Albemarle Sound knows me better than I know myself. For at the end of a tiring day, when I walk along her shores, she caresses my feet—but even more, she caresses my tired soul. The gentle wind seems to push me along as I walk out on the old wooden pier that extends a good distance into the water. I dangle my feet into the cool waters and listen as the seagull calls out to the wind.

And I am changed in this place—along the beach where I walked as a young girl. I gaze out at the waters where I water-skied at sixteen and smile as I remember the day I finally learned to let go of the rope when I fell. I smile as I remember all the times like Saturday night dances with sixties beach music. I laugh as I recall dancing the twist as the sounds of the music floated through the air.

I remember the young men who walked this shore who went on to Vietnam. They were so young—so full of life— how they loved this beach! One Saturday they were jumping off the pier swimming far out, and the next week they were sent to war. Three of them never returned home—but this beach owned by the Veterans of Foreign Wars remembers them.

The beach and I go way back; we have a friendship that I realize will always exist. I have changed ever so much, but our friendship has remained basically the same. Yes, the shoreline has eroded somewhat—and the pier has been rebuilt due to hurricanes a couple of times—but ah, my friend has managed to capture so many hearts and hold them forever. It always has been that way here at the Legion Beach.

Yesterday, I took my daughter, my granddaughter, grandson, and great-granddaughter down here. We stood on the pier and listened to the symphony of seagulls calling out to the wind the way they always do, and we watched as the topaz waters lapped against the wooden pier. I looked at them—caught up in the splendor—and I smiled once again. It was happening to them, too. They were falling in love with this place just as I knew they would.

My grandson splashed in the water as he and his sister enjoyed the day. Later, as we prepared to leave, I looked into the eyes of Kaylee, my great-granddaughter, and I whispered in her ear: “Darling Kaylee, someday you will come back here, and you will feel the love of all the generations before you—and you will feel the magic of this place as well. It is one of the greatest legacies I can leave you. It was left to me—and to all the kids who grew up in those special times.”

My three-year-old grandson grabbed my hand as I slowly stood up. “Gramma, can we come back tomorrow?”

I laughed as I said, “Why, yes, and for a lot of tomorrows I pray.”

God had painted a majestic sunset in hues of violet, orange, and pink. I watched as it reflected off my children's face. I stood there, and I knew that in this life of mine—and on this beach—I had touched the edge of splendor. I could not ask for more.

Marsha Brickhouse Smith

Honeymoon on the Beach

The wedding was beautiful,
the reception first rate,
we left our family and friends,
believing married life was great.

Our honeymoon started,
we arrived at the beach,
our very first winter tan
was now within our reach.

We were given a nice room
on the fifth floor,
a beachside with terrace,
who could want more?

The sky was sunny,
the temperature eighty-two,
the breezes balmy,
their pool was open too.

To test the mattress,
we laid on the bed,
the headboard fell,
putting a knot on my head.

When the headache quit,
I went for some air,
out on our terrace
and into a chair.

As we sat quietly,
watching the sea,
the cheap chair collapsed
out from under me.

There I sat in horror
on the narrow terrace floor.
As my new husband stared,
I scooted back through the door.

My face was red,
my legs were bruised,
my poor rear end
was really abused.

With a straight face,
my husband said,
“Honey you look beat,
want to lie on the bed?”

I did as he suggested.
He went for some ice.
As he closed the door,
I swear he laughed twice.

We stayed inside
the rest of the day,
wondering what else
would come our way.

They always say
things happen in threes,
but I prayed to God,
“No more, please.”

We went to bed early,
then in the middle of night,
I went to the bathroom,
oh Lord, what a sight.

Ants were everywhere,
on the floor and the walls,
our toothbrushes covered,
I ran crying to the hall.

A frantic phone call
to the front desk below.
Hubby explained our problem,
the girl said, “Ooh, no!”

She sent an employee
to inspect our room.
While he was with us,
he noticed my gloom.

He asked “What is wrong,
is it more than the ants?
Isn't your honeymoon,
being filled with romance?”

I showed him the knot
in the middle of my forehead.
He asked what caused such a thing.
I said the headboard fell off the bed.

I showed him the terrace,
with the broken-down chair,
which caused the bruises on my body,
both here and there.

A discreet phone call later,
we were moved to the honeymoon suite.
There was no added charge,
now wasn't that extra sweet?

What started to be
our honeymoon from hell
turned out to be fantastic,
the rest went quite well.

If you get a bruise on your bottom,
and a large knot on your head,
you can be moved from a nice double,
to a suite with a king-size bed.

This marriage has lasted,
it's our thirty-third year.
After surviving our honeymoon,
there was nothing left to fear.

Pamela Gayle Smith

“One of the top perks of marriage . . . there's always someone to rub sunscreen on your back!”

Reprinted by permission of Stephanie Piro.
©
2004 Stephanie Piro.

MASSACHUSETTS

Wellfleet-Cape Cod

MASSACHUSETTS

Wellfleet-Cape Cod

Seal Island

C
ourage is being afraid but going on anyhow.

Dan Rather

Born and raised in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, my husband had never so much as dipped a toe in the ocean. And he had no interest in doing so. I was shocked when I learned that my twenty-eight-year-old future husband had no clue how to swim. Andrew had no interest in ever seeing the ocean, much less swimming in it. He was convinced that he'd either sink like a rock to the bottom, or he'd be attacked by a shark.

“Honey, it's virtually impossible for you to sink to the bottom of the ocean. You do have legs and arms you know. All you have to do is move them.”

“I'm telling you I sink like a stone,” he continued. “My father tried to teach me how to swim in a pool when I was a kid.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I ended up on my back at the bottom of the pool. Just lying there and staring up at the surface. I couldn't move.”

I started to laugh, but he looked serious. My soon-to-be husband wanted nothing to do with the ocean and the magic it has to offer.

I had to admit my heart was a little broken. I grew up in the Northeast, and my family spent each summer in a Maine beach cottage. Summer vacation was a reprieve from “real life” that I looked forward to each and every year of my childhood. My parents always fought a great deal and never seemed very happy together. However, our time at the beach seemed to make our family a little more cheerful. My parents fought less, and my older sister and I spent time together. At the beach, my family seemed closer; hence, Maine had always been special to me.

Due to some difficult family circumstances, Andrew and I had planned to elope. Sitting together in front of the computer, we searched on the Internet for a special place to get married. We looked at the mountains in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, with its beautiful chalets and open-air hot tubs. We then considered Florida.