It was maybe the summer before 7th grade when I first visited the East Coast. My mother and I, along with her side of the family, stayed at my uncle’s house in Virginia for about a week. Apart from sightseeing and family bonding, the trip was pretty uneventful.
On one particular day, we planned a trip up to some beach in Maryland. It would be like a 2-hour drive, but my cousins and I were pretty excited to be doing something outside of the house. We put on our swim trunks and packed all the necessities expecting to make a whole day out of it. I didn’t care how long and boring the ride up would be because I fucking loved playing in water.
When we got there, the family went immediately for the shops. Of course, nobody was going to buy anything aside from sandals, but still everybody took their time looking through the same stores we had back home expecting to find something different.
I don’t know how much time passed before we actually touched the sand, but my cousins and I were all getting antsy. Our parents had us stop every-so-often to take our pictures along the storefronts to memorialize our time window shopping.
I don’t recall what the beach looked like, but I do know I felt overcome with relief and excitement when it came into view because my cousins all shared the same sentiment. We were pretty fucking pumped to drink sea water and dig aimlessly for trash and treasure.
Before we got the chance, my mother and her sisters had us line up for a couple pictures in front of the water. I was impatient, but I didn’t mind too much. I was just happy to be there.
After a couple clicks of the camera, our parents told us it was getting too late to stay any longer. We picked up our still-packed gear and left for Virginia.