(Flagler Beach, Old Salt, and the Hammock beaches up and down the coast)
As I come over the bridge, I see you there, on the horizon.
You are the horizon, and already my excitement builds.
I say out loud, “There you are, ocean, my ocean.”
It’s a tradition and something I can’t make myself stop saying.
We pile our chairs and water out and take them to the sand.
As soon as my feet touch the damp heat of it, I know I’m almost there,
like the front yard of the house I grew up in.
I’m almost home.
We park our things, settle in,
then immediately must go down to the shore.
My eyes automatically scan the plethora of things
beneath my feet on the way down.
I’m looking out for crabs and other living creatures,
making sure I don’t cut my foot on a broken bit of shell.
Occasionally, I stop and pick up a shell, ask myself if it is worthy
of washing off and taking home to add to my ever-expanding collection.
I have so many that I have to be pickier about what I take home,
lest they take over my living room entirely.
My eyes look up and see the crashing wave coming towards me, as if to say, “Hello, again! It’s you! Where’ve you been?” And I mentally answer back, “I’m here every week. I always come back. It’s so lovely to see you, my friend… my ocean.”
Hubs and I lock eyes and smile. We know we are truly home now.
The next hour or more is spent walking the edge along surf and sand, periodically stopping to admire something, watch a surfer or para-sailor, going back to sit and grab a sip of water.
He says how we’re on vacation, he says it every week. It’s tradition. I answer back, “Yup.”
But we live here now, nearby, not too far, just over the big bridge.
I can’t really explain the draw, the love, the longing, the belonging I feel here. Perhaps I lived or died here in some previous form of existence. All I know is that it feels like home.
I’m finally home.
