Summertime Shore ~ RYAN AUDEMARD

Summertime Shore

RYAN AUDEMARD

The Jeep’s rubber tires crunch and slide on the sandy asphalt. Ready to go, my bare feet poke out the side door and my heel is met by a popped cockle shell. Sunken into the green oak leaves stand the worn clapboard houses that stare out at the water—a native sight to this side of the island. Ahead of me lays a tiny foot patch through the beach plum brush—a swath of green dotted with colors of the sunset in the form of late summer fruit. Walking towards the low thunder of the Atlantic waves, I am already hurting from the hot and coarse sand on my bare feet. I find myself in a place that is more than familiar. To my right lies the many times I caught dogfish and seabass with my family. The countless times I was bit by horseflies and ran for cover under my jolly roger beach towel. I begin to live vicariously through these memories; I become inundated with the physical feeling of my feet on the wet rocks, the sand in my dried out salty hair, and thoughts of long walks on the beach. The afternoon sun beats down through this morning’s clouds, the sand grits between my toes, and the seagulls unleash a smell of dead Jonah crab. I gaze out beyond the bend of clay cliffs to try and find the farthest tip of the island, and the familiar woody, salty, damp beach smell is wafted to me by the autumn breeze for just an instant. The unique smell has managed to sit in the air for as long as I can remember. I begin to sink into the sand and watch the same wave crash along the curving shoreline: an ancient cycle that never stops, it is something I know will never go away. Tires sliding and crunching on the sand fill my ears once again for what would be the last time. In the blink of an eye, days turned months that turned into years. There’s a pain of uncertainty that comes with not knowing the next time you’ll see something that is held close to your heart. It’s as if all of my experiences and time spent are being sold off too—my mind’s time capsule up for sale. My eyes took their last long stare at the house through the parting oaks. Eighteen years come back into my head. Countless summers. Countless seasons. Every. Single. Birthday. It was a rush, like that new autumn wind that leaves just as fast as it came. Eventually I, too, go. Just as slow as I arrived, still holding on.