My aunt lives on Berman Island, on the coast of Massachusetts. I have spent every summer there since I was five years old. In June, usually about a week after school gets out, I pack my summer supplies, catch a bus to Seattle, fly to Boston, and then my aunt picks me up and takes me to her home. She lives right on the water, and the view goes on forever. The northeast is very different from the northwest. The light is different, the water is different. Supposedly the Atlantic is colder than the Pacific, but personally I think the Atlantic is warmer, or maybe it’s just less windy. The water is different; unlike the Puget Sound, it doesn’t have slimy, three foot long seaweed tentacles that stroke your legs and make you wonder what else might that be rubbing on your leg? It’s clear, dark water, with waves large enough to surf and an undertow that almost drowned me as a child.
It’s wild and powerful, and you can feel the deep pressure and weight of the water and the sky when you lay in the lapping waves and stare at the horizon. Sometimes you see boats so far away that they look like a toddler’s toys. The beach has golden sand that rushes through your fingers and falls back to earth, as difficult to hold as water. I love this island. It’s quiet and serene, a beach house town with a surf shop, an ice cream parlor, and a marina. My aunt owns a boat here, and she sometimes lets me take it out on the water. I like the boat, but I prefer the water. The way the waves rock your body, the numbness, gradually sinking in deeper until you no longer feel the bottom, and then the rush of adrenaline as you scramble to regain your footing before the next large wave knocks you under. I’m the oldest in the family, and whenever I stay with my aunts and uncles that have kids, it’s my job to watch them. I carry those damn kids around all the time; push them on swings, put them to bed, pull and push them when their parents say to. I’m never having kids. I do want a boat, though.
Out on the water it’s different. Everything is light, and my thoughts get carried into the clouds on rays of sunshine. Every day of the summer I go to the beach, and most days I go in the water. Once, a few years ago, there was a large storm that took the porches off of some of the homes closest to the water’s edge. Everyone was out the next day cleaning up the beach. In the evening there was a big bonfire and people brought food and music and I didn’t have to watch the kids. I made a friend that night, and we spent the rest of the summer together. I still see him when I visit, but he had a summer job this past year, so I saw him less than usual. He is a good friend. I am generally a pretty serious person and I can get tangled up in the seaweed of my thoughts and pulled under the water, and he is able to brush them aside as if they were nothing more than fog, and help me float back up to the surface.
It rains occasionally, and I love those days. Water above and below, immersing you, drenching you to the bone. This is the best time to look for shells. The sea delivers treasures and the rain exposes them. The beach loves its shells, so it holds onto them, hides them, covers them up. It carries those shells for so long that eventually they become a part of it. The rain pushes the sand away and you get glimpses of pearl white shell, perfect for the collection. At the end of the summer I can only carry my top ten favorite shells home. I collect hundreds at my aunt’s house, but the load would be too heavy, and the trip would grind them down to bits and pieces. Everyday is the best day there, on the beach. My aunt bought me a surfboard for my last birthday, and I broke it in this past summer. Surfboards are brilliant creations; you glide on top of the water, so light and fast and balanced that you never sink in, even as waves reach up and over you, and also they are not as cumbersome as boats are.
I still prefer being in the water. I always take my lunch with me to the beach, because I am usually there for most of the day. My aunt has a garden, and she makes the best sandwiches and cold soups from her vegetables. She makes a cucumber soup that is so light and fresh and cool that you feel like the ocean is in your veins. I am red and burned and chapped from the sun and salt by the end of the day, and I can feel the grains of sand in every pore and crease and fold of skin. The worst thing about the beach is the sand in my swim trunks. My aunt has an outdoor shower that I use when I get back from the beach. The hot water and the cooling air as evening approaches give me goosebumps. I put my clothes from the day into the washer and do my dishes from lunch, and then my aunt and I either read for awhile or we’ll watch the Red Sox games. I might mail my mom some shells next week. I need to ask my aunt how much postage costs.