The kind of beach you explore

The dirt road to the beach isn’t so much a road anymore. The grass has grown, the trees fuller. The tractor impressions which once defined a path have vanished. But I still know where this road leads.

The beginning of the journey is marked by a rickety, rusting ‘No trespassing’ sign hanging off a chain link rope.  I wonder why it’s even there because a sign that old, speaks more to abandonment than trespassing. However, I hop over the rope and continue on my journey. I feel calm. The path is flanked by open fields. My favorite part about the walk is glancing back at the old farmhouse in the distance; my grandfather’s old homestead, our current family gathering spot.

My cousins surround me on this walk and the many family dogs run free all around us. This is their special place, too. As we walk, I notice the cranberry bushes, or lack thereof, that we used to pick until our fingers were red. You can smell mud in the air.  Mud in the country has a different smell (the animal influence). The road is full of mud puddles. Half the fun of the journey is finding the safest way to get around them. Until one of the dogs comes barging through and it doesn’t matter how clever you thought you were; you are now covered in mud splatter.

There’s a specific turn in the road, one where the water becomes visible, through an opening. I get a feeling of anticipation. We’re getting close to our beach. It’s not the kind of beach where you’re excited to set up camp for the day and run crashing into the waves. It’s the kind of beach where you roll up your pant legs and explore. Poke the dead jellyfish with stray pieces of drift wood. Find sea glass, which are majorly softened pieces of beer bottles. Pick up the odd shell and realize it’s not that pretty. Skip rocks along the water. Dig holes in the sand until you reach clay.

And if you dare…you’ll test the water. You’ll make it as far as your ankles, look at the ocean floor littered with seaweed and other extremities and change your mind. But at least you tried.

The walk home from the beach is longer than the walk there…or so it seems. You brought half the beach home in your shoes; there's no longer an anticipation. However, the walk home has an opening too; one where you can see an old farmhouse in the distance and suddenly, the walk home becomes a little sweeter.