It lay just at the ocean’s edge, a green shovel abandoned by some child, glistening and damp from its ride to shore. Nothing about this shovel was particularly special, but when I picked it up, an idea for a novel occurred to me. The shovel would be part of the beach equipment in a house like the one we were renting, the owner a retired professor who would occasionally pop up to visit his renters. The main thrust of the tale, however, would tell of the families who stayed in the house for a week at a time during the summer, their joys and sufferings, with the green shovel acting as a motif through the story.
Nothing ever came of this idea—at least, not yet—yet the green shovel serves as a fine token of the beach and the trips my family has made to Emerald Isle for the last ten years. Because we no longer owned the Palmer House, which was large enough to accommodate our growing tribe, and because I wanted my children and grandchildren to come together once a year, I began renting a beach house for a week every summer.
When we commenced these excursions, we stayed in a four-bedroom house, Deacon’s Rest, which was a two-block walk from the beach. As more and more grandchildren arrived, we kept renting larger houses. One particular favorite was Unserhaven, an older home, inexpensive compared to its neighbors and located right on the beach. For the last two years, we have dropped our bags in Changes In Attitudes, which has additional bedrooms and a small pool. A great pleasure for this grandfather is to sit in the shade beside the pool, a bottle of Pellegrino Water or a gin-and-tonic in hand, and watch nine, ten, or eleven screaming, laughing grandchildren jump in and out of that pool.
Over the years, certain traditions have grown from these reunions. My friend John Peery, a sort of unofficial godfather to my children, makes his way down from Richmond for a day or two to pay a visit. John and I engage in some wild conversations, dialogues about politics, women, and life that leave my children gaping at times in disbelief at what we say. Every year each couple takes one evening and makes supper for the entire crew. There are long conversations with my children and their spouses about everything from politics to cooking. (My son-in-law Mike, a former rugby player and coach, likes to watch the cooking channels while on vacation and prepares elaborate meals throughout the week). Thanks to the suggestion of a friend, Kim, Grandpa—that’s me—serves an ice cream luncheon mid-week to the grandchildren, a smorgasbord of ice cream, fruit toppings like bananas, blueberries, and strawberries, nuts, candy sprinkles, and of course, whipped cream.
Circumstances have altered some of our traditions. For several years, I have marched a squad of grandchildren through The Dollar General, where each child buys one toy for a specified amount. Next year, however, I plan to redirect our shopping trip to the larger selection of a local toy store. For a while too, in those first years, I would babysit the children one evening so that the other adults could enjoy a couples night out, but with a dozen grandchildren and more coming down the pike, Grandpa and the tradition were both retired.
My own habits at the beach have changed as well. When I was a boy, and later when with my own children, I rode the waves on rubber rafts and inner tubes and built castles in the sand, but these days I am most content just watching the ocean or taking walks in the early morning. My doctor tells me to avoid the sun—every six months or so, he knocks off a few more dots of skin cancer from my forehead—and so I spend the hottest part of the day on a porch or in the house. For a long time, too, I always felt as if I didn’t begin my vacation until it was almost over. Several years ago, I acquired a trick that helps me start my stay at the beach much earlier. When I arrive at our rental house, as soon as I step from the car I tell myself I am on vacation. For whatever reason, this tactic works every time. My vacation begins that day instead of the next Thursday or Friday.
Like most of you readers, I find the beach appealing for many reasons. The days shamble along, care-free, without any real schedule other than supper together; the greatest demands are those of children, keeping them in suntan lotion and food and drink; the pull of the sand and water are so powerful, and the slow pace and heat so conducive to sloth, that few of us ever want to leave the house.
But the real draw of the coast is the ocean. You know the routine. Maybe you wake at sunrise—because of the curvature of the coast, Emerald Island faces south rather than east—and you sit with a coffee on the porch and look out at that shining expanse of waters stretching to the horizon. Or maybe you take a walk in the late morning and stop and hold your hand above your eyes and look at a fishing boat seemingly suspended between water and sky. Or it’s twilight and you listen to the slow growling of the waves beating the shore and you think of how many thousands of years, how many millions of nights, those waves have rolled inland exactly as they are doing this very evening.
At this stage in my life, when I think of the ocean, one word comes to mind: wonder.
When we commenced these excursions, we stayed in a four-bedroom house, Deacon’s Rest, which was a two-block walk from the beach. As more and more grandchildren arrived, we kept renting larger houses. One particular favorite was Unserhaven, an older home, inexpensive compared to its neighbors and located right on the beach. For the last two years, we have dropped our bags in Changes In Attitudes, which has additional bedrooms and a small pool. A great pleasure for this grandfather is to sit in the shade beside the pool, a bottle of Pellegrino Water or a gin-and-tonic in hand, and watch nine, ten, or eleven screaming, laughing grandchildren jump in and out of that pool.
Over the years, certain traditions have grown from these reunions. My friend John Peery, a sort of unofficial godfather to my children, makes his way down from Richmond for a day or two to pay a visit. John and I engage in some wild conversations, dialogues about politics, women, and life that leave my children gaping at times in disbelief at what we say. Every year each couple takes one evening and makes supper for the entire crew. There are long conversations with my children and their spouses about everything from politics to cooking. (My son-in-law Mike, a former rugby player and coach, likes to watch the cooking channels while on vacation and prepares elaborate meals throughout the week). Thanks to the suggestion of a friend, Kim, Grandpa—that’s me—serves an ice cream luncheon mid-week to the grandchildren, a smorgasbord of ice cream, fruit toppings like bananas, blueberries, and strawberries, nuts, candy sprinkles, and of course, whipped cream.
Circumstances have altered some of our traditions. For several years, I have marched a squad of grandchildren through The Dollar General, where each child buys one toy for a specified amount. Next year, however, I plan to redirect our shopping trip to the larger selection of a local toy store. For a while too, in those first years, I would babysit the children one evening so that the other adults could enjoy a couples night out, but with a dozen grandchildren and more coming down the pike, Grandpa and the tradition were both retired.
My own habits at the beach have changed as well. When I was a boy, and later when with my own children, I rode the waves on rubber rafts and inner tubes and built castles in the sand, but these days I am most content just watching the ocean or taking walks in the early morning. My doctor tells me to avoid the sun—every six months or so, he knocks off a few more dots of skin cancer from my forehead—and so I spend the hottest part of the day on a porch or in the house. For a long time, too, I always felt as if I didn’t begin my vacation until it was almost over. Several years ago, I acquired a trick that helps me start my stay at the beach much earlier. When I arrive at our rental house, as soon as I step from the car I tell myself I am on vacation. For whatever reason, this tactic works every time. My vacation begins that day instead of the next Thursday or Friday.
Like most of you readers, I find the beach appealing for many reasons. The days shamble along, care-free, without any real schedule other than supper together; the greatest demands are those of children, keeping them in suntan lotion and food and drink; the pull of the sand and water are so powerful, and the slow pace and heat so conducive to sloth, that few of us ever want to leave the house.
But the real draw of the coast is the ocean. You know the routine. Maybe you wake at sunrise—because of the curvature of the coast, Emerald Island faces south rather than east—and you sit with a coffee on the porch and look out at that shining expanse of waters stretching to the horizon. Or maybe you take a walk in the late morning and stop and hold your hand above your eyes and look at a fishing boat seemingly suspended between water and sky. Or it’s twilight and you listen to the slow growling of the waves beating the shore and you think of how many thousands of years, how many millions of nights, those waves have rolled inland exactly as they are doing this very evening.
At this stage in my life, when I think of the ocean, one word comes to mind: wonder.