THE OCEAN

THE OCEAN

I grew up living near the ocean. At the age of eight my family left our farm in the country and moved to Old Orchard Beach, Maine. We had a slight view of the Atlantic Ocean from the upstairs bedroom window. I had to walk only a quarter of mile down the hill, across the railroad tracks, pass the Brunswick Hotel and onto the beach. During the summer months, Mother would take me to the beach, every day but, only after her work at home was finished.

The Atlantic seashore has a personality of its own. It's a rugged coastline, jutted with coves and promontories and massive rock ledges that are home to a plethora of birds and sea life. The beach sand is a coarse, caramel color, scattered with seaweed and kelp, clam shells, crabs, snails, and sand dollars brought in and deposited by the last tide. We find old lobster traps, and fishing nets blown off boats during high winds or after the jolt of an unexpected wave.

The signs are posted now to protect the Plovers; it's their breeding season. There are 14 species in North America, but in our little town we are concerned with the Piping and Semipalmated Plovers, They nest in the sand along our beaches and are vulnerable to beachgoers and roaming pets. We have sand dunes and beach grass at the end of our boardwalk. This is where we find the Plovers.

Seagulls are somewhat of a menace, making their own mess of the beach. Being scavengers, they guard their territory in the hopes of finding an unsuspecting crab or clam to eat. If they are lucky they will find an unopened clam, carry it in their bills and drop it, attempting to break it open and gain access to the delicate meat. They are actually very skilled at doing this. In the good ‘ole days one could head to the beach, after a storm, and gather up all the hen clams and quahogs one could carry. Not any more. After one great hurricane, my dad filled the back of his truck with clams: he was caught by the warden and he had to return all the clams back to the beach.

Before the “clam limit law” was put into affect, Dad would bring the clams home by the bushel and deposit them in the kitchen sink. Mom laboriously shucked, cleaned, ground and froze them. Pints and pints of fresh clams for the next year. We would enjoy the efforts of all her hard work: i.e., clam puffs, fritters, chowder, casserole, clam pie, clam cakes and fried clams. The whole nine yards. If there wasn’t a recipe, Mom would invent one.

There’s something new and refreshing about being at the beach. I love to feel and sift the hot sand between my toes and to wade in the cold water at low tide. During the summer in Maine, my husband and I walk the beach twice a day: three miles in the early morning and another three miles in the evening. I love seeing the sun glistening on the water as the morning awakens and hearing the waves slap against the shore. There’s something intoxicating about watching the waves in action and at each interval leaving its own footprints in the sand. We aren’t the only early risers, to be on the beach. People walk with their pets and many carry a cup of Dunkin’s coffee. Some are running the seven miles of sandy beach. There are kids, parents, lovers walking hand in hand, people on bicycles. I’m pleased to be a part of this scenery; this place that I've known for so many years.

The sand castles that were painstakingly built the day before, are now history; gone with

the evening tide. It’s a new day coming and we’re excited about it. As early as it is, some vacationers have already arranged their beachheads, way before they’ve had breakfast or the children are out of bed. The “perfect” spot has been secured for the day. By ten o’clock in the morning, the beach is full. The towels, chairs, and umbrellas have been placed with care; the children are in the water or digging in the sand; the tanning lotion has been applied with precision. Wide-brimmed hats and sun glasses are in place, and the ice coolers are stocked with cold drinks. Coming with enthusiasm and expectation, everyone is ready for another spectacular day at the beach.