A Day at the Up-Down Beach

            My son calls the ocean the up-down beach. He does this to distinguish it from the bay which he affectionately refers to as Nonna and Ba’bap’s beach.  Up-downs are the waves.  My son dubbed them this a couple of years ago when we were at the bay on a windy day.  The wind kicked up the water forming tiny swells, which in the eyes of a two year old where big and fun, an exciting variation from the placid waters he was accustomed to.  Holding him tightly so that he felt secure, Nonna rose and fell following the rhythm of the water.  As she stood tall to lift my son over the wave she said, “Up,” and as the wave gently dropped them she exclaimed, “Down.”  This she repeated multiple times, so that the words became ingrained in my son’s head.  The first time we took him to the ocean after he started talking, he called the waves, “up-downs,” and the words stuck.  Even now, though he knows the proper term is “wave,” he refuses to use it.  And so now, in our vocabulary, the ocean is no longer the ocean; it is the up-down beach.

            This summer, despite being busy and spending much time at Nonna and Ba’bap’s beach, my son had been asking to go to the up-down beach.  We refuse to go on the weekends.  The traffic on the parkway is horrific, and none of us would patiently sit through it, moving at a snail’s pace or slower.  And the parking, who wants to spend an hour or more driving around in search of a place to park?  To avoid the chaos, we go during the week.  However, this summer my spouse is working mornings and the early part of the afternoons which means an early start is not possible.  But a late start is better than no start at all.  So while my spouse was at work on Wednesday, I packed dinner, towels, buckets and anything else we might need at the beach.  We arrived just after three, the most pleasant time to be at the beach.  The sun has passed its zenith and so it isn’t as hot and the crowds have begun to disperse as people head home or back to their hotel to have dinner.  A sense of peace descends upon the beach and I find myself able to enjoy it much more.

            Despite his eagerness to get to the up-down beach, my son adamantly swore that he was not going to go into the water.  Last year, I was holding him out beyond where the waves break and one wave was too high.  I knew no matter how hard I jumped, I’d never make it over and so I told my son to hold his breath and we went under.  I held him tightly the entire time we were under.  There was no reason for him to be afraid; I’d never let him drown.  But at the time he hated getting his face wet and the experience completely spooked him.  And so this year, when we arrived, he refused to even get his toes wet.  Instead, he brought his buckets and shovels down to the high tide line to play in the wet sand.  

            He played for only a short time before the lure of the water conquered his resolve to stay dry.  Inching down to the water’s edge he waited for a wave to crash, and when it did and the water rushed forward, my son sprinted away from it. Again and again, he followed the water as it receded, stopping just before his toes would make contact.  And when another wave crashed, he turned, his little legs pumping fast as he ran towards the shore.  With each retreat he grew bolder, until his bravado exploded into a hail of taunting words. “You can’t get me,” he goaded the sea, waving his arms and daring it to do just that.  And it did.  A wave crashed, and as the water rushed forward it entangled itself in my son’s legs.  He was now wet from the waist down, but he didn’t seem to care, if anything, he was even more excited, laughing as the water nearly tripped him.  And when he finally pulled himself free, a smile clinging to his face, igniting his eyes, he turned around, faced the water and resumed his taunting.  This time when wave won, crashing and splashing on his face, he exclaimed, “This is the awesomest day ever!”

            After awhile, my spouse picked him up and carried him into the water, nearly to the point where the waves were breaking.  Dipping him into the foamy water, he laughed and as the water washed over him.  I watched, enjoying laughter, until my spouse handed him to me, declaring it was my turn.  I asked him if he wanted to go out further, and he said, “Yes, but I don’t want to go under water.”  And since that was something I could not guarantee, we stayed where we were.  As the waves approached I lifted him as high as I could, and once the waves broke I dropped him, still holding his torso, careful not to let his head go under.  When I plucked him out of the swirling water, he clung to me, his arms wrapped tightly around my neck and his legs locked around my waist.  “Mama,” he declared as I lifted him again, his body silhouetted against the sun, “This is the best day of my life.”