The sun, the surf and the memories

20 years.7300 days. 175,200 hours. 10,512,000 minutes.

A lifetime and just yesterday.

Life does not stop when someone dies. It changes. There is a new normal as day to day activities, routine and milestones are re-defined around the absence.

I think of her often – especially in these summer months. The beach, every time I see someone with that golden brown tan (however unhealthy) or see pictures of the sand and surf. During the next few weeks there will be countless pictures posted of friends and family at “the beach” – the great getaway down Route 50, over the bridge, take Route 404. Stop at Adam's Fruit Stand. Bethany Beach, Ocean City, and Rehoboth – the sleepy towns of my childhood have changed but still bring back the same old memories. And, the beach always reminds me of Rona.

It’s funny how a place can remind you of people – as much as any other shared memory with that person. Rona isn’t the only one I think of when I think of the beach – but I always think of her when my toes hit the sand.

Me, Bethany Beach House, 1970

My beach thoughts always start with Big Susan. It was her beach house that brings me my earliest beach memories. The old bikes stored under the house. I was too little to keep up with everyone and would ride on the handlebars. Destination? York Beach Mall where the grocery had donuts every morning. Off we went – to bring them back to the house. Everyone grabbed their favorite and my mom would eat only half. Half a donut. Who the fuck eats just a half?

Swimming in the ocean. Doesn’t matter if it’s just my toes getting wet or if I’m out diving under the waves. Always reminds me of Big Susan’s kids – I would go out soooo far into the ocean. One of the big kids pushing me on those old thick rubber/canvas rafts when I was too small to manage on my own. I’m sure I went ass over tea kettle more than once – but I do not remember ever being afraid.

Once summer, we stayed at a hotel – Summer Place. It was near the beach house so we spent our days there. It was me, my mom and my sisters. My biggest memory of that summer was that our bathing suits got stolen off the clothes line outside. It was my blue and white bikini.

Mini-Me, Bethany Beach, 2014

As I got older, the beach brings me memories of other friends. In high school, D and I went to her family’s beach house. Alone. No parents. Did I say alone and with no parents? There we were, relishing that bit of freedom to set our own hours and act like grownups. We laugh about that parenting choice and how we would never. I was lucky to go to that beach house often – and I have wonderful memories of her dear dad in that house. I can hear his laugh as he told jokes. I hear his voice telling great stories as we sat around the table eating hard-shell crabs and drinking beer. I am grateful that I was able to take my mini-me to that house – and share with her the magic of Bethany Beach.

Not all of my beach memories were of my time there. There is an old story of my mom and Big Susan driving to the beach house to set it up for the summer. There they went in the old station wagon. Two broads – two best friends, with no kids, and a car loaded to the brim with toilet paper, cleaning supplies (my mom was quite the cleaner), cereal, cans of tuna and other assorted necessities for the summer at the beach. The only thing between them and the sand that year was the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and a major summer storm. They would tell the story of driving across the bridge in rain coming down so hard you could barely see, winds pushing against the car so hard they swore it blow them off the bridge. They made it across the bridge, pulled over, hugged each other and cried. I told that story to mini-me as we drove across the bridge – she said she completely understood their feelings as she peered out the window to the water far below.

Beach memories and the people in them changed as I got older and changed coasts. When I moved to CA, I was just a short drive to Santa Cruz. Many a Sunday morning found my brother and me flying over Hwy 17 to spend a day in the sand. There was nothing earth-shattering that happened, no major event. Just a memory of a place that always makes me think of those Sunday mornings with my brother.

Mini-me & cousins, Manhattan Beach, 2013

Now, when I think of the beach – I often picture the wide stretch of sand, the picture-perfect pier and the long walk to the bathroom at Manhattan Beach. I think of my brother and his family. This is the beach of my mini-me’s memory – where cousin T took her out on a surfboard and taught her to love the waves. Where she played for hours with her cousins – digging for sand crabs, playing in the surf. Those super early mornings when only parents of young children were awake and we’d hustle the kids into town to get breakfast before we woke anyone else. She thinks of her aunt and uncle, her cousins, the family friends. We’d walk to those special places at the beach that we visited each time we were there – The Creamery, Pages and Udderly Perfect. Even in the winter. Mini-me has very vivid memories of Christmas Eve walking along the pier with me, her aunt, uncle and cousin and ending up in Shellback Tavern where the nice bartender made her a hot chocolate she could stir with a candy cane. Grownups opted for something a bit stronger. (I’m both proud and horrified that one of her favorite beach memories is of being in a bar on Christmas Eve.) Those evenings at the house where we’d have drinks by the fireplace – our skin a bit redder, our eyes a bit bleary and our souls the kind of blissfully tired that only the beach can bring.

We shared that beach house with friends. For a few years, K and I would pull the girls out of school and escape to the beach for the perfect September weather. Those girls would play for hours on the beach. K would obsessively apply – and re-apply sunscreen. We’d occasionally feed the seagulls that would hover over any potential snack. One year, there was a gull who had a string wrapped around his legs. There were K and I, trying to wrangle this bird to cut this string off – I made her do the cutting. She was a nurse was my excuse. We’d walk the piers in the evening as the girls ran down and peered over the edge. These are Mini-me's beach memories.

My mom loved the beach. Big Susan loved the beach. They loved being there together. Some kid was always getting yelled at. There was sand everywhere. No one watched much TV (only had about three channels so no one really bothered.) The ginormous dining room table that my mother was always – and I mean always – wiping down. Reading comics I found lying around and Stephen King books as I got older. An occasional evening out to Jolly Roger or the boardwalk but that was rare. The beach was the destination.

Rona loved the beach – everything about it. Our last trip was to Bethany. We stayed at friend’s house right in town on beach block. We’d get up early and walk along the water. Sitting on the beach or in the screened-in porch reading. People watching, possibly running into (or avoiding) people we knew. Hard shells at least once during our trip along with Thrasher’s fries with vinegar. It was one of her happiest places. Even when she wasn’t feeling great, she felt removed from her illness at the beach. More peaceful. It is the place I most often picture her. Remember her.

I am not at the beach today though I am wishing my toes were in the sand. And, I wish I was with those who loved the beach the most.

Miss you.

Rona Diane Majower

November 1, 1964 – June 27, 1999