Marylanders go to the beach the way you go Up North. You have your family cabin in the woods; my family had a townhouse on the Delaware shore, a three-hour drive away – the longest car trip imaginable.
For the two decades of my childhood, going to the beach was my summer vacation, and it suited me perfectly. We’d build castles, dig pointless holes, jump waves, and weave back and forth in the surf like sandpipers. At night I’d fall asleep listening to the memory, the aural afterimage, of the waves’ rhythmic susurration.
Every visit, we’d boast that we could walk far enough to reach where the sand ends, but we never meant it. The sand is infinite; there’s no point in trying.
Read the rest on Volume One Magazine.