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i
learned to flirt with death at a very young
age--being knocked down, dragged, and tumbled was
what we called playing in the waves. no rocks to
worry about on long
island's south shore, but we were quickly
schooled in the thrills of rip currents, undertow,
and an abrupt shore break that hit like a brick
wall. my idea of swimming then was divided between
blinding white sand beaches and crystalline
chlorinated pools. there was even a pool at the
beach, where you'd retreat when the sea
was angry and the lifeguards whistled
everybody out, breakers brown with sand sucked
from the bottom crashing like thunder. but the
overcrowded pool was arguably more dangerous, a
tangle of bodies engaged in that most taboo
pursuit: horseplay--which
entailed hardened city kids holding you under when
the lifeguards were looking the other way. "a day at
the beach" meant being put through the
wringer, going home scratched and battered with
water in your ears and sunburn too painful to
touch. to my child self, this wouldn't have
qualified as a beach--shallow, rocky, weedy, and
flat. but it is salty, and a late afternoon flood
tide over sunbaked rocks makes for exquisite
swimming, with water temps that briefly hit 80
last week. and there are subtler
pleasures of light and movement to be
enjoyed year round, gentle rhythms imperceptible
until you slow down. |
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