Stories That Got Us In: “Beach Day” by Krista Veneziano
I’m sitting in the sand with my hands cupped around my eyes. If you walked up to me from the beach entrance, you’d think I have a pair of binoculars in hand, but I regrettably left those at home. So, it’s just me with my poor eyesight, cold hands, and a sweatshirt that is too thin for the wind. It’s migration time, so I’m squinting in the hopes to see a visitor. Canada Geese fly above, but my eyes are on the horizon looking for a whale spout. I take breaks to scan the shoreline for seals.
This trip to the beach was unplanned, as they tend to be for me. Most of the time I end up here as an action branched from an errand, something that brought me out of the house related to money or socializing, that action itself needing to be bookended by nature. It reminds me of something I half-learned in physics class about an action having an equal reaction.
Sitting here is my reaction. It’s an impulse. Never with a chair, occasionally with a rare, remembered beach towel, I plant myself in the sand and I sigh. I cup my hands around my eyes and will a whale to arrive. I don’t see one. I think hard about how badly I could stand to see some magic and when that doesn’t work, I decide I’m happy either way, hoping the wildlife comes to reward my nonchalance with a sighting.
Sometimes my errand that got me out of the house was to get lunch, which I bring to the beach, in weather far too cold for a picnic. I ache for something extraordinary while I eat my turkey on wheat with extra olives. I stare at the ocean looking for something but the floaters in my eyes are the only thing I notice. I add an eye doctor appointment to my mental to-do list.
Beach trips when I was younger looked different. A cartful of toys, trucked out and then back, gritty from sand and salt on their return trip. We returned similarly, half an hour after our toys, bribed with the promise of a dinner simple with salt, cheese, and grease. It was our treat for tiring ourselves out and my Mom’s for orchestrating it all.
After arriving back at home and leaving the bathtub caked in sand, we’d sit on the couch sunburnt in bliss, remembering the magic in the day’s waves. The birds, the castles, the sand fleas, and the shells, all of it extraordinarily plain, but indelible in memory.
The magic was never far on those days. Somewhere between the golden hour of being little and having a cartful of toys with a pizza waiting at home, I ache for that ease of joy, not realizing that it took a careful planner to make that magic manifest.
I wonder if the magic is gone or if it just takes the effort. If I were eight, I can’t imagine I’d be having as much fun sitting with my ass in the sand on a cold beach. As I crumple up my sandwich wrapper, I wonder what changed, with the answer arriving within the same thought. I walk back to my car and decide to pack up my beach chair next time. As I start the ignition, I hear some geese in the distance.
