When I was young at the ocean my days were wondrous, marvelous adventures that others, no matter their age, became envious of whenever my stories were told. Every day I walked between two worlds- the bottomless blue world of mystical creatures and the world it joined at the sand. The sand was filled to the brim with shells and rocks so pretty that you couldn’t help but pick up. As I walked the Boardwalk, the Times Square of Myrtle Beach, I couldn’t help but try to shove ever post card-perfect seashell into my lemon colored bucket before the handles fell off, so I could bring home a piece of the beach and have something to treasure while I waited for summer to come again.



When I was young at the ocean I thought my dad could touch the sky and my mom could carry me through the entire sea if I ever got tired of swimming. I was Grandma and Grandpa’s little princess, and, although I hadn’t even been around for a decade, I was thoroughly convinced that the seat at the head of the table always had my name on it.


When I was young at the ocean I wore swimmies that stretched to the bottom of my stubby, pre-school, arms, slept in every place but my bed because I thought it would give me more in common with the “big kids”, and tried to perfect the manicure, even though it always ended with the carpet getting more of a painting then my nails, more than once. Life was a care-free race and I was always a participant.



When I was young at the ocean I spent my nights on the deck trying to imitate Mom with a wine glass full of milk in one hand and my other hand on the hip that wasn’t quite there yet. I stayed up until 9:30, which back then was unbelievably late, and bragged to everyone the next day that I had been up practically to midnight. I slept with one eye open as I anticipated the sound of fireworks and the sight of rainbows exploding in the air, reflecting off the moon for everyone to enjoy them.

When I was young at the ocean I watched time go by without giving it a second thought. The sun rise high into the sky and set into the water, mixing the world like a paint brush being dipped for the first time. I was but a Dora-kickboard using, doll collecting, sticky handed little girl who walked with her hands between Mom and Dad’s knowing that as long as I was in their grasp, nothing could hurt me.


When I was young I wanted time to go by faster. Time was merely just a barrier between me and the next awaited adventure; never did in my wildest dream did I think I’d be longing for more.

Unfortunately, time goes by.