It’s a cold day at Carmel-by-the-Sea, so my sibling and I are both wearing long jeans and t-shirts with hastily purchased, light jackets bought at the nearest superstore. It comes as no surprise to either of us that the jackets prove useless against the chilly wind that buffets us, making us shiver as we take a moment to look down at the almost-vertical sand dune standing between us and the Pacific ocean.
Then, as if a pistol banged “GO” beside us, we hurtle down the dune together, already breathless with laughter before we even begin.
Sand kicks up behind us like banners, proclaiming to the world (at Carmel) that we are here! And that we are about to enjoy some serious ocean water!
Behind us, the rarity that is our family’s laughter fades into the wind. Despite all of the dysfunction that has plagued our family for as long as I remember, I’m glad they’re having fun. But, at the moment, I only care about my sibling and me.
Stumbling down the pock-marked dune, we meet the water line at the same moment—but we’re instantly taken aback by a wave that’s risen to meet us. Black and ominous, it towers over both of our heads like a looming leviathan. And, for an instant, we look at each other and share the same half-overwhelmed, eager smile.
We’re together, I wordlessly tell them—and I know they hear me. Together, we survived yet another family outing, just like we always do… just like we always will.
But the wave comes crashing down, then, like a deluge of ice, and shatters the moment we shared with all of nature’s aloof glory.
Both of us scream. And laugh.
Then, we scramble away from the surf like two people gone mad.
In front of us now, the dune looms sandy and high. Like twins, we sigh with the same breath, and my sibling lets out a small groan at the imminent tribulation. The sky above us begins to darken into early evening, and the wind—somehow—blows all the harder. We can just see my cousins and an aunt up top, posing like they’re Charlie’s Angels. And we can hear the faint sound of our parents laughing together.
If there is a god someplace, I hope they’re getting my silent gratitude loud and clear.
This halcyon moment in time is one I’ll remember forever.
Then, as if a pistol banged “GO” beside us, we hurtle down the dune together, already breathless with laughter before we even begin.
Sand kicks up behind us like banners, proclaiming to the world (at Carmel) that we are here! And that we are about to enjoy some serious ocean water!
Behind us, the rarity that is our family’s laughter fades into the wind. Despite all of the dysfunction that has plagued our family for as long as I remember, I’m glad they’re having fun. But, at the moment, I only care about my sibling and me.
Stumbling down the pock-marked dune, we meet the water line at the same moment—but we’re instantly taken aback by a wave that’s risen to meet us. Black and ominous, it towers over both of our heads like a looming leviathan. And, for an instant, we look at each other and share the same half-overwhelmed, eager smile.
We’re together, I wordlessly tell them—and I know they hear me. Together, we survived yet another family outing, just like we always do… just like we always will.
But the wave comes crashing down, then, like a deluge of ice, and shatters the moment we shared with all of nature’s aloof glory.
Both of us scream. And laugh.
Then, we scramble away from the surf like two people gone mad.
In front of us now, the dune looms sandy and high. Like twins, we sigh with the same breath, and my sibling lets out a small groan at the imminent tribulation. The sky above us begins to darken into early evening, and the wind—somehow—blows all the harder. We can just see my cousins and an aunt up top, posing like they’re Charlie’s Angels. And we can hear the faint sound of our parents laughing together.
If there is a god someplace, I hope they’re getting my silent gratitude loud and clear.
This halcyon moment in time is one I’ll remember forever.
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