A Siren Call

I don’t know how to swim.

I guess that’s something I don’t share unless it’s called for because most people my age do. Like most kids growing up, I only ever stepped foot in the water with a flotation device or by staying in the shallow end. Reaching high school, I would recoil at the thought of having to learn how to swim while as far as I knew, every single student in my gym class already knew how. I mean, sure, I’d have the occasional revelation of being in a situation where the ability to move in water was necessary. And even though it actually is something I should know how to do for certain emergencies, treading water didn’t exactly sit right with me.

However, despite always avoiding the element or simply sitting myself at the edge, I fell in love with the salt water margins surrounding our country.

The mere mention of a beach never caught my interest because I didn’t think I would have fun if I couldn’t go as far as my friends or family members. I just never understood the pull they seemed to have until I began going to one with an old friend.

For two years after our graduation, we would take a short road trip to the nearest beach for at least ninety percent of those summers. The appeal still wasn’t there just by talking about it, but by that time I’d also been itching to go to one for the sake of starting to broaden my horizons. The transition from indifference to admiration was slim, for once I stepped foot on the sands that seemed to change form the closer we got to the water, I was hooked.

Seeing photos covered in watermarks was one thing. Experiencing it after barely having the memory of visiting one as an elementary school student was another.

It was so surreal.

The way the sands changed in both solidity and pattern. The waves crashing against each other in the distance before washing up against the edge of the shore. The rock formation in New Hampshire that brings you out to see in order to grab amazing photo ops. The footprints that imprint into the wet sand before they slowly sink away with each soft wave that hits the shoreline. The enjoyment of every person who thought, “It’s a good day to go to the beach,” and did so with no hesitation or regret. The music playing from the bars and lounge across the street or on the seaside stage. The lively conversations of those on the sidewalks, in line for food and drinks, or coming from their beach houses.

Very quickly did this thing that was only the scene for Miami and California movies become the one thing outside my house that gave me comfort.

Standing at the curvy line where the ocean waded during high tide filled me with a bliss that I never got to experience before then. All that time I spent staying away from the sea seemed like such a waste of wondering and looking up pictures on the internet. I went from not carrying any interest to living for it every time my friend texted me about a trip; every time we went to the mall and on a whim decided to head to the coastline of New Hampshire at nine at night; every time we we went just because we both had a day off from our separate jobs.

I can’t even begin to really describe how important sand and water is to me. It all happened so fast, and since then I’ve felt like it was meant for me. That somehow, despite never being able to go the distance or swim with dolphins or scuba dive because of my inability to swim, it was supposed to become a direct part of my life. All I need to do is go through my own videos and photographs and I feel at home.

The beach isn’t just a destination to go to for the heck of it.

It’s a symphony of all things beautiful and mysterious. Of creatures and plants that are both known and undiscovered. Of salt that gets in your hair and prunes your fingers after a length of time. Of sand that gets between your toes and exfoliates your skin. Of the deepest treasures that attract anyone and everyone, so we can all enjoy what it has to offer above and below the surface.

It’s a siren call.

And whether I’m minutes away or smack dab in the middle of the country, I will always find a way to answer it.