My parents were very eccentric, and we traveled for most of my childhood. My most favorite thing to do was to stop at Miami Beach to play in the waves.

This was a treasured occasion that occurred once a year when we stopped to visit my grandparents. My parents hated the sun, and would huddle on the picnic tables in the pavilion drinking hot coffee from a thermos. I would be drawn onto the hot sand, which heated my whole foot including between my toes. This necessitated a little hop, skip, and jump to get down to the cool sand on the shore. I would stand there for a few precious minutes of appreciation, infatuated with the waves; different sizes with amazing shimmering effects that I was seeing in “real life”, not on the television.

Slowly treading out onto the cool sand, the waves made ripples around my ankles. The water was cool on my hot body, (temperature wise, not slim, great figure wise.) Inching in up to my knees with the water making me shiver, boldness would take over and I take that first, jump in the cold water and freeze jump. Glad that that unpleasant part was over, my body would soon relax and began to bob up and down in the water. Body surfing soon became the glorious sport of the day, riding the whole wave into shore so quickly that my bathing suit would fill with sand by the time I reached the shore. Shaking myself out, I’d jump right back into the water, and repeated this for the two hours I was allowed to play in the ocean. It was the most amazing activity I did in my whole childhood, pushing Disney World down on the list.

Although we also lived near the ocean, we lived on a lake and my parents saw no need to go to crowded beaches. Once, my class did a field trip to Oakland Beach, which was part of our ocean. It was a nice beach, but similar to the lake beach that was in my own backyard.

Imagine my surprise when I got my driver’s license and me and my friends trekked to Scarborough! Waves! Big waves! Waves of my childhood obsession and they were in Rhode Island! It was an awkward moment of giddy delight and regretful anger, some of which I still hold inside as I’ve aged. My whole youth was squandered on one Miami beach thrill a year when it the same delights were only an hour away from my own home!

Over the weekend, I took my kiddos to the beach, bringing my 3-year-old granddaughter for the first time. Her extremely chubby toddler body had to be shoved inside a stretchy bathing-suit-with-a-lifejacket-built-in, in a method I suspect is similar to stuffing a sausage, pieces of it oozing out, only to be gently forced back into the casing. Once safely ensconced in her bathing wear, she made a beeline for the ocean. She may have tiny feet, but they sure run fast! She ran right in, and was shocked when the first wave came, knocking her gently on her little butt.

It then became a game of chase the water out, turn around and run from the wave coming in, and repeat. She kept trying to play in the water, but those darn waves kept coming back! Cold, bubbly, sand moving was moving under her feet. Finally, she got frustrated! She wanted to play in the water without being knocked over! She stood there with steely eyes, glaring at the water, and decided to take control of the situation. Strongly, and with great determination, she shook her chubby little finger at the waves and said in her loud toddler voice "STOP!"

And lo and behold...they kept coming....