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The
Beach House |
| The
boat jerked back and forth harshly as it cut it's way across the bay.
I held on the side with one hand and to the bottom of my seat with the
other. Water continually came over the side, splashing my face, filling
my mouth occaisonally with its salty taste. I ducked my head into my
bright orange life jacket, like a turtle retreating to its shell when
it became too rough. Others may have found the ride extremely unpleasant
but I rather enjoyed it. The rocking of the boat almost lulled me to
sleep. I looked over at my sister, who was sitting in the same position
as me - reversed. I wished that I could read her mind, wondering if
she was as excited as I was. It would be the first time all summer that
we visted the beach house. I couldn't wait. "Are we there yet?", my sister asked impatiently. As an answer, my Mom pointed ahead of us. I could see the familar line of sand that would gradually became the island ..."our" island. My Dad steered the boat up along the dock that I had helped to build. The winter had taken its toll on it, as it always did. Several planks were missing or hanging by a single nail. The dark brown wood was splintered and decaying. I looked mournfully at it - dreading the hours that we would work to patch it up. My Dad gave us a hand up, spouting the usual warnings to be careful. After receiving my share of the luggage, I walked carefully along to the beach. I lingered outside for a moment, admiring the house. Or I could say, shack. It was only one story and seemed as if it may fall apart in a strong breeze. The paint was faded yellow and chipping. The windows mostly obscured by some undefinable goo. The grass had overgrown, creeping up between the rotting boards of the small deck, reaching up the outside of the house seeming to choke it or hold it together. It was hard to tell. It made our modest little regular home seem like a palace in comparison. And yet, I found myself still filled with a sense of awe and magic, the kind that you can only feel in childhood. I could already smell the mouth-watering brownies that Mom reserved specially for beach house trips. I could already feel the sand running between my toes as my sister and I explored the beach, scouring for hermit crabs that we would build castles for. I could picture the many floats- the horse, the whale, the submarine - that we kept in the back room, ready to be inflated and taken out for wild journeys in the bay. I could hear Mom reading our favorite stories as we laid tucked into our choice of bunkbeds, huddled under thick old quilts smelling of mothballs. I could see all of us reclining in the evening, laughing as we played Password and the boardgame Peanut Butter and Jelly. Dad finally came along with the key for the padlock on the front door. And we stepped inside. |