For eleven summers of my childhood, I spent the week of the Fourth of July with my family. We rented a small cottage right off the beach with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. In the four bedrooms we managed to find a place for all eleven of us to sleep. My instinctive thought to the word summer brought images of us spitting watermelon seeds off the sides of the deck into the sand dunes below. I could picture our backs baking in the sun as we constructed fish tank castles; their spires created by allowing the wet sand to run from the palms our hands and drip off our fingertips. We filled our castles with silver treasures captured by dragging our fishing net along the tide. The fish would wriggle about when they were forced to breathe outside of the ocean currents. Hurricane Bonnie had ripped my adolescence experiences from me when she wreaked havoc upon the shores where our tiny cottage sat, defenseless to her blows. We were under the impression that we would never return.
It had been five years, more than a quarter of my lifetime, since my toes had nestled in the sands of Emerald Isle. I seemed to be transported back in time as we pulled into our parking spots below the cottage. Though I was an adult in the world’s eyes, I felt like a child again. We had hardly finished unloading the vans before I was racing my sisters and cousins to blow up those silly inner tubes that resembled tires. Lightheaded and dizzy, I lathered up and hit the beach. The typical teenage approach to the beach never really had a chance to develop in me; rather than making my nest on the sand and attempting to bronze myself in the sun’s rays, I splashed and turned about in the waves as I rode them to shore. Yes, the rituals I took part in as a young child remained within me all those years.
The parents seemed to be stuck in the old mindset as well. Still seeing us as the kids we once were, the basic rules stayed in place. There was to be no swimming if they were not on shore, underneath their wooly mammoth umbrellas with their eyes glancing away from the pages of their novels every so often. Always tell them where you were going. We were to never walk on the beach alone and, of course, we had to reapply sunscreen every other hour. We stuck by the rules all week long. However, no rules were ever mentioned about floating in the inner tubes. My twin sister, cousin, and I, after a lunch of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, decided to take a break from our typical day of fishing and relax for the afternoon. Still not accustomed to lying out, we decided to set adrift on our tire tubes.
It was the calmest day of the week. The ocean was as placid as a pond and there was a light breeze descending the dunes and continuing toward the ocean. Our parents hardly noticed us stroll by, the half-deflated tubes tucked awkwardly under our arms or hugging our waists like giant tutus. We set off, never expecting the drama that was to unfold. A few minutes later, we took note of our distance from shore. With hardly any wind, we weren’t very far out and had only drifted a few meters down the shore from where we had entered.
Next thing we knew, a sharp whistle sailed through the air. I recognized it as my mother’s and looked over to where she stood on shore; her hands were on her hips and she was pacing back and forth. I could tell by her body language that she was upset, but at what, I couldn’t understand. The frantic waving of my aunt’s arms brought the situation into perspective- we were in trouble. No, not in danger of any sort. We were in trouble for breaking some unspoken rule of how far out we could float. Our mothers have always had a frenzy energy that feeds off one another, and once set into motion, it is unstoppable. Another Whoowhoop escaped from my mother’s lips as we began to casually paddle back to a less threatening distance. Yet again, the piercing sound could be heard. At that point in time, our mothers’ over reaction seemed to be humorous. We were eighteen years old and they didn’t think we had any discretion of how far out was too far. Over and over again my mother whistled as if we hadn’t heard or even started to make our way back. The more she exercised her call, the less I wanted to get back, in fear of her wrath. About three minutes after the ordeal had begun, our mothers had us by the arms, dragging us back to the umbrellas and telling us off for our stupidity. I would like to believe that the guys passing by did not notice their hissing scolds. My older sister had been pulled into the pandemonium as well; she was running back from the house, cell phone in hand, prepared to dial 911. Our punishment: banishment to the house. Grounded at the beach.
Being the last kids in both of our families to leave for college, the closer it got to the time to step out into the world, the tighter our parents clung. For eighteen years they played important roles in each of their children’s lives and devoted their time and energy to them. Their purpose could be seen clearly and their influence was apparent. However, the inevitable day when they would never again have the same power in our lives was approaching. When it came time for their kids to leave the security of the shore and set sail on the wide ocean of both dangers and delight, their sense of purpose and self-perception would vanish. It seems that parents just want to prove to themselves in any way possible that their children are still dependant on them. They become apprehensive about their kids being able to make the right decisions on their own without being there to guide them. My mother and aunt’s behavior that day demonstrated their fear of being left behind and their instructions forgotten. After so many years of protecting us, it is difficult for them to suppress their maternal instincts. It was their last chance to fret over their baby girls before their role as mothers would change forever.
I stood there in the forbidden sands at the base of the stairs, the bottoms of my feet burning as I hesitated. My parents’ backs were facing me and they hadn’t yet seen me violating their sentence. I was no longer the little girl I had felt like at the beginning of the week that would freeze motionless at her parents command. Instead, I was a young adult that needed to make her own decisions. It wasn’t that I wanted to disobey them; I just felt that I was past the age of being reprimanded as a child. I needed to set adrift in life equipped with the guidance and values they had instilled in me all these years. They could either stand there on the shore with their hands on their hips in disapproval of my choices, or sit underneath the shade of the umbrella reading their book, confident in their parenting.
hurricane charley...at the beginning of the week. they acted like we were out in this.
see? placid as a pond. obviously, i wasn't exaggerating. this is a picture of my mom and aunt...just hours after grounding us.
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