For me, it’s not a true vacation unless there’s a beach, preferably a long, sandy one in a warm climate, where I can walk off the winter doldrums or swim, snorkel, paddle, fish, or simply sleep on the warm, soft sand. The beach is a vacation. It’s downtime, a place to thaw, relax, and rejuvenate. I take other vacations to mountainous regions, but there’s something about sinking my toes into the pale, talc-y sand that melts my cares away. Perhaps it’s because Hanover is inland on the edge of the White Mountains, and the beaches that I travel to each spring are a complete change of scenery, a couple of thousand miles south, in Florida or the Caribbean.

I’ve been to other beaches around the world, an endless arc of sand along Hudson Bay where the only sunbathers were polar bears, a gravelly strip along The Mediterranean Sea in Nice, France, a black beauty in Santorini, Greece, and a surprise find on a canoe trip at the end of Long Lake in the Adirondacks. Each one was not only aesthetically pleasing and unique but formed in different ways.

Walking a long, white strand clears the head. In the ebbing and flowing interface between sand and water, months of mental muddle sort themselves out. Even at a crowded beach, I can find the peace and the privacy to think, or not. The rhythms of the waves, my footsteps, and my heartbeat from the slight exertion drown out the rest of life in a refreshing way. That is until a seabird squawks at me. 

To continue reading this story please see page 58 in the Here In Hanover Spring 2021 digital edition.