I was born and raised in Santa Barbara, CA so I spent summer days at the beach. I loved to chase the waves and see if they could catch me as they lapped their way back to the shore. I'd collect shells, investigate the tide pools left between the big boulders, and build sandcastles. One of my favorite things to do was ride my pony along the sand with the ocean spraying my feet and the breeze sifting through my hair. I spent countless hours at the beach.
As a teenager, I attempted to surf. My teacher, who was also one of my closest friends, patiently tried to help me find my balance so I could ride a wave. All we ever accomplished was a good laugh. I could body surf, but on a board, no way.
I always loved the scent of dried sea water on my skin and the salty taste on my lips.
I'm sure many of my memories suffer from a bit of selective amnesia. After all, I used to collect plenty of sand in my swimsuit, find my feet covered in tar, and experience more than one sunburn each summer. I can also remember opening my eyes underwater and feeling the sting of the salt water. But, as I recount my childhood at the beach, those less pleasant memories are replaced by the idyllic world I've created for myself.
Isn't that what's so great about writing? We can create whatever world we want. We can dream it and make it whatever we want it to be because it's our own. We aren't shackled by what actually is, only by what we can dream.