Old Friend Atlantic
This Memorial Day was my first, in some 13 years in which I didn't spend it somewhere where it was cold and rainy. On the contrary: it was warm and sunny. It's great to be far away from the Midwest, if, for no other reason, to see my childhood friend: the Atlantic Ocean.
As a child, I used to feel cheated because my parent's didn't own or otherwise procure the use of a beach house. Growing up in Brazil, everyone spent January and February at the beach. I felt left out, denied and condemned to a summer in the city. I could deal not having the ocean, but we didn't have a pool either. In my mind, that had to be some sort of double jeopardy. Surely, somewhere there was a rule that specified that children should have access to a body of water. Best I could do was the plastic kiddy pool, which in my book was rock bottom, both figuratively and sometimes quite literally.
Every now and again, a friend would invite me along with their family to *their* beach house. And while I used to pretend that *their* house was actually *my* house, it did little to alleviate the feeling of being left out. Sure, I grew up to be a good person, to be thankful for what I have and to help others who may not be as fortunate. I now understand the furiousness of my desire for a beach house, especially given the fact that so many people go without any type of home, let alone a beach house that features a large terrace adorned by hammocks in which one can nap and catch the afternoon breeze.
Truth be told, I should stay as far away from the sun as possible. As a child, before sunscreen was widely available, when people still used to grease themselves in baby oil and sit in the sun, I was the kid in the pool with the t-shirt on, because the two-minute walk from the car to the water had already caused my skin to fry. I was the first child among my friends to know what SPF meant. I have been painfully white all my life, so when schools started back up after summer vacation and all my friends were tanned from the months at the beach, it would sting twice as bad.
Even though I'm what I call "pigment challenged," (because it appears I have very little of it and sun exposure inevitably ends in second degree sunburn, no matter how many precautions I take), I can't begin to explain how much I missed living within driving distance of the Atlantic Ocean. Of just knowing it was there, in case I want to pop over and say hello. When I moved to the Detroit area from Brazil, it blew my mind that people actually lived so far away from the ocean. It was almost beyond comprehension to me at the time.
With a hat, a bottle of sunscreen and a t-shirt (in case of a sunburn emergency), I paid a visit to my old friend the Atlantic. He was a bit cold, and I stayed mostly on the sand. My hair grew sticky of the salty mist in the air, and sand crept into places sand should not go. All things considered, it's good to be back!
As a child, I used to feel cheated because my parent's didn't own or otherwise procure the use of a beach house. Growing up in Brazil, everyone spent January and February at the beach. I felt left out, denied and condemned to a summer in the city. I could deal not having the ocean, but we didn't have a pool either. In my mind, that had to be some sort of double jeopardy. Surely, somewhere there was a rule that specified that children should have access to a body of water. Best I could do was the plastic kiddy pool, which in my book was rock bottom, both figuratively and sometimes quite literally.
Every now and again, a friend would invite me along with their family to *their* beach house. And while I used to pretend that *their* house was actually *my* house, it did little to alleviate the feeling of being left out. Sure, I grew up to be a good person, to be thankful for what I have and to help others who may not be as fortunate. I now understand the furiousness of my desire for a beach house, especially given the fact that so many people go without any type of home, let alone a beach house that features a large terrace adorned by hammocks in which one can nap and catch the afternoon breeze.
Truth be told, I should stay as far away from the sun as possible. As a child, before sunscreen was widely available, when people still used to grease themselves in baby oil and sit in the sun, I was the kid in the pool with the t-shirt on, because the two-minute walk from the car to the water had already caused my skin to fry. I was the first child among my friends to know what SPF meant. I have been painfully white all my life, so when schools started back up after summer vacation and all my friends were tanned from the months at the beach, it would sting twice as bad.
Even though I'm what I call "pigment challenged," (because it appears I have very little of it and sun exposure inevitably ends in second degree sunburn, no matter how many precautions I take), I can't begin to explain how much I missed living within driving distance of the Atlantic Ocean. Of just knowing it was there, in case I want to pop over and say hello. When I moved to the Detroit area from Brazil, it blew my mind that people actually lived so far away from the ocean. It was almost beyond comprehension to me at the time.
With a hat, a bottle of sunscreen and a t-shirt (in case of a sunburn emergency), I paid a visit to my old friend the Atlantic. He was a bit cold, and I stayed mostly on the sand. My hair grew sticky of the salty mist in the air, and sand crept into places sand should not go. All things considered, it's good to be back!
Labels: summer
posted by Fe at 9:03 PM
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