Proof The Bible Is True

I couldn’t wait to get into the ocean. My sister, Peggy, and I ran ahead of our parents, dashing up the Clark Street ramp to the boardwalk. We threaded through the crowd, bumping into the adults, craning our necks to see the beach through their legs and knees.

 

“Slow down, Marie,” Daddy shouted. He set up the big beach umbrella while my mother, aunt and grandmother spread out on the baking sand. I stripped off my shorts and sandals and followed Peggy into the water. It rushed up over my bare feet. “Catch me!” Peggy shouted, splashing me. I ran after her, giggling, until a big wave picked us both off our feet and sent us tumbling—soaked—back to shore. “Be careful!” my father shouted from his blanket. “Those waves are mighty big today.” Daddy was the disciplinarian of the family, but even he couldn’t slow us down. Peggy and I were having much too much fun to listen.

 

My family always spent August at the beach in Wildwood, New Jersey, where my aunt Ethel owned a boarding house. After dinner, we’d go for a walk on the boardwalk. I’d hold my mother’s hand, staring up at the bright neon lights over the movie theaters and the arcades. It was like peeking into a different world. Then there was the ocean. I could smell the saltwater everywhere I went and hear the faint pounding of the surf, almost drowned out by the music from the merry-go-round and the roar of the wooden roller coaster. All year long I looked forward to August. The beach was my favorite place on earth.

 

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