August Of 2013

August of 2013 was a hot one, at least I can recall that much. 

It’s funny how we use these arbitrary checkpoints of seasons, months, and days so strictly in the moment, even when we know full well that they’ll simply bleed together in a year or two. Like rain on wet paint, like watercolors, these subtle distinctions will mix and blend and wash away, leaving only the memory of something as stagnant as the temperature. 

But I’m being cynical. Of course I can remember more from that summer, it’s only a matter of trying. We do have to put forth effort to remember. It’s like sifting through sand for ancient fossils. We’re not going to remember everything, we won’t even remember most of it. But just as an archeologist would become ecstatic over the recovery of a single velociraptor vertebrae, we have to take what we can get. 

There is no rhyme or reason to memory. It often seems as if we only remember the most apparently forgettable things in the world. For example, if you tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to recall the name of my hermit crab I kept alive for a total of two weeks in the second grade, I’d be able to tell you in a heartbeat. On the other hand, if you’d asked me to name over five parts of the cell, the only response you’d get would be a nervous laugh.

Cape Charles is one of my hidden gems, or velociraptor vertebrates, or whatever you’d like to call them. It’s one of those memories that doesn’t go away. It’s the kind that fills your senses when you think about it. 

When I remember that August day, the walls that time and experience have built around me seem to crumble, transporting me back to a time of tanned skin and golden sun. I can almost feel the marsh grass brush smoothly against my legs, hear the hum of thousands of cicadas echoing in my ears, and nearly taste the sea salt which collected on my upper lip. I could so easily get lost in that space that connects the past to the present. Nowhere to be, nobody to impress. Just the sound of the waves and the pleasance of a warm summer night breeze. 

It was one of those days in late summer where you could feel the coming school year on the horizon, so you gathered up a couple of friends and ran. 

In this case, I was the friend being whisked away. My childhood partner in crime (or maybe my long lost twin, separated at birth) had his heart set on a beach day. His name was Elijah Brown. At the time he had clean-cut dark brown hair, trimmed to just above the ear. His eyes were the color of moss, and he almost always wore a white v-neck, no matter the occasion. We must’ve been rising freshmen by that time, basking in hormones and the uncertainty of what high school had in store. 

I don’t remember planning our adventure into the sunshine, it may have been a snap decision. Which would make since, summer was made for snap decisions. 

Like a dusty projector flickering to life, my memory begins to come back to me at the start of our three-hour car ride from Central Virginia to Somewhere. I’d clamored into Mrs. Brown’s minivan, hauling a daypack fully-stocked with sunscreen, swimwear, ibuprofen, and Clif Bars. While we didn’t have an exact destination in mind, we knew with considerable certainty that we were headed to the coast.

Isn’t it interesting how some memories aren’t so much memories, but feelings? I don’t remember every little word we said to each other on that lengthy car ride, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the level of anticipation that I felt as I buckled my seatbelt, or the pure exhilaration I experienced as we blasted “Story of My Life” by One Direction, screaming out the lyrics with reckless abandon. Although my friend was very much a boy, he’d often humor me in these little ways. Besides, going off the gleam in his eye and the sheer volume at which he belted that pop-heavy chorus, I think it’s safe to say he secretly enjoyed it as well.

When we arrived in Cape Charles, I quickly came to realize that it was nothing like any other beach town I’d visited in the past. To be fair, my experience had been limited. 

I’d passed through Fort Lauderdale on a trip to Disney World a few years back, and I’d certainly walked the Virginia Beach oceanfront many a time, but there was something far more subdued about this place. The streets that were usually lined with surf shops, hookah bars, and motorcycles had been replaced with ones which appeared to be straight out of one of my grandma’s high school photo albums. 

On the corner lay a small bookstore surrounded by a gravel lot, which I’m sure could have only held five cars at a time. A few blocks down was a consignment shop, which featured an impressive collection of woolen dresses hanging in the window. There was a laundromat, an ice cream parlor, a small café with two bikes parked out front. My eyes never once left the window as we traveled down that narrow road, passing one eclectic shop after the next. To me, it felt as if we’d driven straight into an episode of the Andy Griffith Show.

“Oh, how cute!” Exclaimed Mrs. Brown, eyes shining at the scene before her. All Elijah and I could do was stare.

I’d woken up that morning expecting to go to the beach, swim, maybe grab some soft serve, and head home. As we stepped out of the car and onto the pavement, these small ambitions were completely vacant from my mind. For reasons which I still cannot fathom, I couldn’t bare to leave this town unseen. Even though it’s probably the town with the least to see that I’d ever set foot in, its dreary outdatedness grabbed my attention like a vice. The palpable nostalgia in the air seemed to carry secrets with it that were dying to be uncovered. 

We’d parked just a few steps away from the consignment shop. As we approached the display window, Mrs. Brown glanced thoughtfully at the ancient dresses.

“Is it worth a look around?” She questioned, her eyes flicking towards us for our input.

“As much as I’d love to see what stylish ladies wore back in ‘69, I think there may be a few other places that better match my vibe.” Elijah snickered, scrunching his nose up at the clothing.

“Uh, yeah,” I nodded, “I saw a hardware store a shop or two back, you think they might sell boogie boards? I mean, it’s probably the closest thing to a surf shop there is around here.” 

“Worth a shot,” he agreed, although I’m almost certain he’d have accepted any location that didn’t involve those dusty woolen dresses. 

“Don’t get lost!” His mother called after us, “I’ll be here!”

“We know!” We both shouted in unison. 

As we turned to leave, Elijah whispered, “Are we really buying a boogie board?” 

“Hell no!” I laughed, “Just trying to spare you from that graveyard of pink, scratchy fabric. You’re welcome.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you,” he muttered, grinning sheepishly at the pavement. 

As we pushed open the heavy metal door of the hardware store, we were instantly greeted with the unmistakable smell of gasoline. A single ceiling fan revolved slowly overhead, lightly blowing at the translucent cobwebs which clung to the rafters. An old man in a baseball cap smoked a cigarette behind the front counter, momentarily glancing up from his newspaper to look us up and down. Once he met our gaze, he offered up a small nod and a half-smile. It seemed as though we’d passed inspection.

We spent that afternoon as tourists of a town which had no welcome center. We perused the streets, chasing seagulls down the sidewalk like delinquents. We reunited with Mrs. Brown by chance a few blocks down from the hardware store. She stood out like a beacon on the vacant sidewalk, her crimson sundress and canary yellow beach bag contrasting heavily with the washed out brown of the pavement, the storefront, the sky. The entire town seemed to be cast in hues of golden brown, as if an infinite summer had descended upon the place and left it tinted and stained, like a well-worn leather shoe.

Mrs. Brown stood stationary against her molasses backdrop, transfixed by a small, uninhabited display table. She hardly acknowledged us as we approached. Our only conformation that she had, in fact, heard us was a soft but welcoming hum. Bending down, she reached for a long necklace. It was modest, a single piece of seaglass dangling from twine.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” She noted, “Color reminds me a bit of earl-grey tea.”

I nodded politely, Elijah just barely managed to hold back a yawn. 

At that point we’d moved far enough down the road to recognize the faint sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore. In near synchronicity, Elijah and I turned to face each other, an entire conversation darting back and forth between our closed mouths. Elijah nodded slightly before turning to face his mother, who’s eyes remained glued to the necklace display. 

“Um, Mom, it’s already nearly two. Do you mind if we…?”

“Wha- Oh!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed, as if coming out of a trance, “Of course. You all head down to the beach, I think I’ll stay and window shop a bit longer. Don’t wait up for me!”

“Will do,” Elijah shrugged, pulling me by the arm towards the sound of the waves. 

Past the street there lay only dunes which separated us from clear, salty water. We scaled those in an instant, all but slipping down the opposite side and onto wide open sand. The feeling of vastness that struck me in that moment is something that I hadn’t experienced so intensely before or since. The dunes behind us provided an illusion of utter isolation from the rest of the world, and nearly made me wonder if everything up until that moment had been real. 

My friend’s movements served to pull me back from space. We cast away our tennis shoes and hastily pulled off our socks. As soon as we were free of our confines, we buried our toes in the sand as though our feet were on fire and the beach was a basin. 

Smiling, Elijah turned to me and sighed, “Why don’t we live on the beach? Or in the mountains, or the city, or anywhere that isn’t the suburban sprawl of Chesterfield County, Virginia?”

“Four more years!” I chanted, laughing. I was obviously referring to our graduation.

“I know it’s repulsive, but you’ve got to at least try to love that suburban sprawl for what it is. It’s practically raised us, in a way. Besides, we are so close to never seeing it again. Those four years are gonna go by like that, believe me.”

 I snapped my fingers for emphasis. 

He groaned in reply, “I long for the days when I’ll be so far removed from that place that I’ll look back on it with nostalgia instead of resentment.”

I didn’t respond. I knew what he meant, and I’m pretty sure he was talking to himself more than me. Off in his own world.

From that point onward, we had a relatively typical beach day. We splashed in the waves, rolled in the sand, tried to see who could hold their breath the longest. Mrs. Brown joined us an hour or two after we’d left her, the “earl-grey” sea glass displayed proudly around her neck. I guess she’d managed to find a display attendant after all.

Before we could believe, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon line and the sky became a color of dusty rose. Hazy clouds reflected the light in beautiful ways, and it was hard to imagine any other moment then the one we were living right then. 

“Alright you two, we really should start heading back. Don’t want to lose the car in the dark!” Mrs. Brown warned.

After many disgruntled sighs, we finally gave in and packed up our things.

On the walk back to the car, the sound of crickets and seabirds filled our senses. Everything felt so definitively of summer. That familiar ache that comes with being pummeled by ocean waves, that salty stickiness of your hair against your forehead, layers of sand clinging to the backs of your legs. All of this sounds incredibly unpleasant when you put it into words, but I suppose that in the moments you most often feel these sensations, your heart is far too full to recognize any of the physical discomfort that may come with them. 

As I rode past the hardware store and the pharmacy and the consignment shop, I was struck with the kind of idea that only comes to you when you spend time with your best friend. The halfway stupid, halfway transcendental kind that all our favorite memories are born from. I didn’t know exactly how his mother would react so, leaning over, I whispered my master plan into Elijah’s ear. 

At first he appeared visibly caught off guard, but a wide grin and a look of conviction quickly overshadowed any doubt which had been present in his face. 

“Um, Mom,” he coughed, “Do you think you could do us a favor?”

I’ll spare you from the twenty minutes of shameless begging that followed his request. I don’t know if I’d ever truly imagined she’d agree to the idea, but to Elijah and I’s triumphant satisfaction, she did. I assume that the hours in the sun and the oddness of the day had somehow thrown her maternal instincts for a loop.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” groaned Mrs. Brown, “So help me God if your parents-”

“They won’t find out!” I assured her, laughing tremendously as Elijah and I vacated the passenger seats.

The entire day had felt like a dream, like I’d entered another dimension in which the barriers of time and responsibly no longer applied. Where anything was possible. I wanted to feel that freedom coursing through my veins, I wanted to feel the exhilaration of the wind in my hair. For a moment, I wanted to exist outside the confines of gravity. This was the next best option.

“Alright,” Elijah started, “just promise me you won’t lose your footing? I don’t think I’d be able to make it through these next four years without you, and I definitely don’t need a lawsuit on my hands.” 

“Oh how nice,” I mocked, “yes, you idiot, I promise. Besides, it’s not like she’ll be going sixty miles per hour, it’ll be just enough to feel the wind in our faces.”

“Okay, okay, no need to persuade me, I’ve already agreed,” he laughed, hoisting himself up onto the (thankfully expansive) bumper. I was quick to follow.

As I clamored onto the tailgate of my best friend’s mom’s minivan, I suddenly wondered why people were afraid of flying. It seems obscure, and highly unrelated to the moment at hand - but I couldn't help but turn and beg the question,

“If you had the choice to experience something as remarkable as flight, why would you let something as miniscule as fear stand in your way?”

“It must not feel miniscule to the person who’s afraid,” countered Elijah, seemingly a lot less surprised than to be expected after being thrown such a curveball of a question. 

I pondered his response. 

“I guess, but when it comes down to it, wouldn’t you rather be scared than stuck to the ground?” 

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the beep of a horn and the sound of his mom projecting to us from the driver's seat. 

“Are you ready?” She called out, uncertainty quavering in her voice.

We tightly gripped the roof rack, shoulders pressed side by side.

“Yes!” We shouted in unison, our hearts pulsing loudly in our ears. 

And, we were off. And it was beautiful. And scary, and dizzying, and freeing. 

If you were viewing the display from the sidewalk, all you’d have seen would be one terrified mother in a minivan, driving ten miles per hour at the most, with two screaming children attached to the back. You’d probably think you’d had one too many drinks. To us, it felt like rocket ship going into orbit, or a tree in a tornado, or bungee jumping without a harness. 

That pure sense of adrenaline discovered in this quiet, unassuming town has stayed with me ever since I’ve left its parameters. If that feeling has taught me anything, it’s that we all need to unbuckle our harnesses from time to time. Yes, it will cause your heart to beat faster, your pupils to dilate, your palms to get sweaty. It will remind you that you’re human. 

It’s times like these in which memories are made, it’s times like these in which we are truly alive.