The Beach

The last time we went down to Long Beach Island, Elio was a baby. We still counted his age in weeks. I was still on maternity leave. I remember driving down in horrendous traffic with our new friends Ryan and Rebecca and Elio just howling and howling in his car seat. But then we had several days of loveliness. Of early morning walks on the beach, nursing him on a green wooden bench while watching the waves crash in. I remember a nap that he took under a beach umbrella while Guy and I ducked into the ocean, and of evenings that we swaddled him up and let him sleep in Aunt Eloise's room while she rested and we stayed up late watching bad TV. I remember watching Ailsa gaze at Elio in his bouncy seat and wondering when he would be big enough for the two of them to play together. I remember Guy's cousins and aunts and uncles beginning to get to know this little creature.

When we drove down to Ship Bottom on Saturday morning, the traffic wasn't nearly as bad, and Elio didn't cry once. We read stories and listened to "Car Talk" and taught Elio the universal fist-pumping rocking-out motion as we blared "Thunder Road." When we pulled up to Mud City for lunch, minutes after Uncle Larry did, and Adam and Rachel came to unbuckle Elio out of his car seat, I thought Elio was going to burst with joy. And then it just got better. Hours and hours of playing with Ailsa--chasing each other in circles through the kitchen, bouncing on an aerobed, playing paddle ball, playing "crazy ball" with a beach ball that E and I bought on the one rainy afternoon (precipitated by the most amazing cloud formations and striations of gray and blue and purple). Learning how to do somersaults for real after watching gymnastics and diving on the Olympics, and then launching himself over legs propped up on coffee tables and tumbling over. Learning that he differentiates ice cream that comes from an "ice cream store" and that which comes from an "ice cream truck" (how does he know these things?!). Learning from Uncle Larry how to throw a soccer ball over his head the way goalies do (this is now the Uncle Larry throw). Playing water soccer with Andrew at the water's edge. Going exploring and shell collecting with Grandma. Discovering snails that come out after the rain. Watching Uncle Bobby fly a kite.

As for the beach itself, Elio was wary the first day and didn't go near. The next day he let us get his toes wet. The third day, we went down in the late afternoon, after 6, because Guy wanted to take portraits of everyone with his Rolleiflex. After he was done, G ended up jumping in, and suddenly Elio exclaimed, "I want to go swimming!" So we stripped him down right there on the sand and he ran right in, into Guy's arms, and had the time of his life. And if the sight of a two-year-old's naked bum running up and down on the beach in gorgeous late-afternoon light isn't the most beautiful sight in the world, I don't know what is. Of course, the next morning, we had a scare when Elio had his first major tumble in a crashing wave and came up vomiting tons of sand and seawater. The lifeguard seemed to think he was fine, and he certainly seems to be, but it's all I can do not to start Googling "delayed drowning." Yikes.

I ended up taking the bus back to the city on Tuesday night, and Guy and Elio stayed an extra day. They drove me to the library bus stop in Manahawkin, and I was filled with that melancholy feeling I always get when I have to leave the ocean, especially after a wonderful, too-short time. And as I was getting out of the car, Elio started crying hard and saying," No bus, Mommy! No bus!" And I started crying, too, holding his hand through the open window, so sad to be saying goodbye to him, even for just 24 hours, knowing how much I was going to miss the look of wonder and joy on his face whenever he discovered some new wonderful beach thing.