Native Tongue | Long Beach Island, NJ

Beaming, I think to myself, here I am, suddenly harvesting a corner of the ocean.

The Last winds of tropical Storm Isaias ruffling the surface // Summer 2020

A Brief Note from “G”: A portion of this was written during the summer of 2020, when life was slow and the little things were how we counted the days. Everything was in hyper-focus. But not at hyper-speed. It seemed as though the magnifying glass couldn’t have been any clearer. Wrapping up this piece now, I can’t help but fall in love with this place again and again. I hope you feel as transported to sunny, seaside days as I did putting it together. For me, it was certainly a piece worth waiting for.

We’re flying down the Garden State, counting mile markers on the road and suddenly I’m six years old again. One after another passes and the sky begins to turn a new shade of blue. Seventy-seven means 14 miles to the exit. The numbers haven’t changed. We know this still.

I keep my coastal waves playlist running the entire way, until we finally turn off at exit 63. It may be the peak hour of stale afternoon heat, but we roll down the windows anyway, taking in the teaspoons of salt in the air. This is another one of those traditions that sticks.

early Morning, post-run routine

The traffic is slow to start. Cars lull every few feet along the bridge, falling into a rhythm. When my dad is finally able to ease up on the brakes, he starts calling out our usual spots like this is the origin story. How could I ever forget? I think. But, this is part of the tradition, too. He has his own way of delivering words that I never tire of. So, I sit back and listen as he points to Pinky’s Shrimp and mini-golf and Pearl Street Market and the giant ferris wheel at Fantasy Island. Nostalgia ready to be worn in over and over again.

I take inventory of everything because everything is kind here. The sand, the coffee, the flowers. Even the traffic has its own set of values — a no rush policy that treats cyclists and runners like they are the seconds a clock. Steps pounding the pavement: tick, tick, tick. Spokes on wheels clicking: tock, tock, tock. Not faster. Not slower. Everything right in time.

We continue along, passing houses with college flags and trellis lights that won’t glow until the orb in the sky slides back into the sea. I glance to the right, just before the blind spot, and watch surfboards float into view atop car roofs. These are the beautiful parts of summer.

When we pull up to our home for the week — a quiet spot, just steps from the beach — we don’t waste any time moving our bags from the car to the house and leaving the unpacking for later.

We climb a small slope that leads to the beach, looking up at nothing but sky, sky, sky before the most familiar navy blue cuts into view. I press my toes into the sand and the world is put on pause. This place comes back to me like second nature, my native tongue dancing on the brink of summer.

All I can think about is how much I light up here and how I always want more of it. As though I can become it just by riding a bike with a basket that will carry chocolate milk or yellow flowers or bagels from the little shops around the block. Do you know the feeling? Is there somewhere your mind travels to find these things? I like to believe we all have one of these places.

“This place comes back to me like second nature, my native tongue dancing on the brink of summer.”

Two days later, the ocean would tremble from a passing storm the night before. The entirety of it so transitory and strong. It has me thinking about how the sea, the sun, the moon, and the wind shed themselves into something new every second of every day. Can you imagine such an elevated rebirth?

As I get older, things certainly change, but much stays the same. Here is still where my soul is lifted and here is still where I find sanctuary. Among the smell of fresh seafood lingering in the streets. While standing on a surfboard three times out of 100 just to feel the weight of the ocean. During my aimless sprints to catch the setting sun. In all of this, I find myself at home. Home. The one thing that always makes leaving hard on the heart.

“It got me thinking about how the sea, the sun, the moon, and the wind shed themselves into something new every second of every day. Can you imagine such an elevated rebirth?”

On our last day, knowing it will be a while until next time, I follow my dad into the water and slip beneath the waves breaking overhead. I hear the ocean folding into itself and when I surface I take up a handful. If only for a moment, before it slips through my fingers and back to itself, I’m holding the sea in my hands. My very, very small hands. Beaming, I think to myself, here I am, suddenly harvesting a corner of the ocean.

— Sending Sunshine, G —