I drove beach roads in California. Bumper-to-bumper on hot summer days or in the evening rush. Past bright orange sunsets, surfers, and sandy-footed tourists eating ice-cream cones.
But the beach in winter was different.
In the winter, the fog rolled in and the pale blue lifeguard towers were shuttered, standing still like tiny houses on the sand. Bracing for the cold. Looking lonely. Looking sad. There weren’t any tourists in their wrinkled-from-the-suitcase clothes with their sunburns and their floppy hats.
On the Fourth of July, when I first talked to Leo and got jittery at the feel of his shoulder touching mine, the beach was warm and crowded and full of life. Buzzing with energy and promise.
But a couple weekends ago, when we walked down the pier and stared out at the big waves, it was empty. Cloudy and dull. We passed only one person—a woman pushing a dog wearing sunglasses in a stroller.
“Sometimes I can’t believe we live in this town,” I said, watching her pass.
“We’ll miss it when we’re gone.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
“I think I’ll miss this. Us. The fact that you can be right here whenever.”
He laughed.
“What? It’s true,” I said. “Like when you’re somewhere and I’m somewhere else, we won’t be able to just walk down to the beach and laugh at dogs in sunglasses.”
“I think we’ll live.”
I chuckled. “You know what I mean.”
“We’ll be good. We’ll be better than good.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
We walked down the stairs of the pier. Sat side by side in the cold sand. The waves roared in, pummeling the shore in their wintry, angry strength.
Leo reached for me. Grazed my fingers with his. I gave his hand a squeeze then stood up and walked to the water. I dipped my naked toes in the wetness. Felt the cold foam fizzle until Leo came up behind me, laughing.
“You have a day off from practice, but you can’t stay out of the water,” he said.
He leaned in to nuzzle my neck. Turned me around. Kissed me sweetly. Even though my feet were numb from the ocean, I felt that kiss all the way to my toes.
I dug my feet in deeper. Let them sink into the heavy wet sand. I wanted the waves to cover all of me. To keep us forever.
I looked at the water in front of me. Thought of all the faraway places it could take us. All the places my mom and dad had seen.
I remembered her telling me how she’d sat on the same beach before I was born. She stepped into the same ocean with me in her stomach and my dad at her side. The first time she ever felt me kick was when the cold water hit her bare belly. Like I knew we were beach people and I was aware I was home.
It’s where she took me on the day my dad was buried when I was four months old. A few hours before, she’d stood by his grave, listened to the hollow thump of dirt shoveled over his coffin, feeling helpless. And scared. And so suddenly alone. All she wanted to do was feel the ocean. So she left a full house of the people who loved her most. Her friends and coworkers. Roommates from college. The neighbors from two doors down. My mom’s mom and my dad’s sister and brother. His parents, aunts, and uncles. All those people who knew my dad best. They had spent the afternoon making pity faces at my mom while putting their hands on her wet cheeks and promising they’d be there if she needed them. If she needed anything, they would be her people. No matter what or when or where.
She said thank you because that’s what you say when people make promises like that. But after she’d said thank you one time too many, she darted past a table full of casserole dishes and untouched desserts.
She went to her room, put on her bikini, and snuck out the back door with me.
She walked us to the beach.
Ran barefoot through the hot sand.
Dropped her towel down.
Made her way into the water with me in her arms.
The water licked at her toes. Rolled over her feet. Crept up her ankles. Pushing. Pulling. She kept moving forward because moving forward was what she had to do.
A million thoughts swirling. A million what if s and hows and whys running through her head.
I’ve heard that story so many times. I know it like my own because it’s the moment that made us.
It’s the story about how she wasn’t sure she could raise me all by herself.
But then she dipped my toes into the water and I squealed. I kicked my feet, splashing her with the salty ocean water as I laughed. And then she said she understood.
I was meant to be.
I was a piece of my dad left behind.
We would be a team.
She would do everything she could to protect me.
She would be strong.