Summer’s Ebb and Flow
The first few summers of my life were spent on the same beach, in the same stay, with the same people.
It was, for quite a long time, Carita. An aggressively average beach somewhere in Banten, which somehow felt much more distant. Worlds away. The waves were exciting and our stay was five steps away from the sand.
We (being me, my siblings, and my cousin Jo) would wake up every day at dawn, feeling silly and adventurous. Ready to wrestle with the sea. The grown-ups would say no. Not until breakfast and half an hour after, according to what they believed was safe, and then another additional few minutes to cover as much of our small, tan bodies as we could with sunscreen.
We hated the ritual.
One day, Jo drenched his mother’s money in hot tea at breakfast. It was an act of rebellion.
While mornings were for swimming and complaining about how cold it was, most afternoons were spent lying around under the sun. We built sandcastles with small rivers around them, although the architecture didn’t make sense and it was a pain in the ass, having to go back and forth to get seawater with a leaky bucket. Some days we sipped cold chocolate drinks and messed around with temporary tattoos.
I had quite a unique endearment with seashells. I still do. I would walk around, eyes pinned on the ground, detecting unusual shapes in mixtures of sand and rocks. I, in other words, was a walking shell radar. I would collect them in a tiny plastic bag and put them in the front pocket of my red Kipling. Even when that made my bag smell fishy, I didn’t know how to stop.
I remember finding the most important shell of my life. There I was, sitting alone, taking in the blue of the water and the pleasant warmth of the sand when it suddenly appeared. Swept ashore by the generous waves. The water was crystal clear where the shell was, and it reflected the sunlight, making it glittery and impossible not to see. I ran, and I thought I was imagining it, and I ran, and the waves almost changed their minds, and I ran, and I thought I wouldn’t make it, and I ran, and I snatched the shell, and the waves snatched me, and it was all worth it.
The shell became the largest in my collection. The swirls were elegant and white and it sounded like the sea.
Sunset hours were for surfing. Matt, Jo, and I would rent colorful kids surfing boards that came with ropes and velcroes. We would attach them to our wrists and play until they turned red and blue.
I loved befriending the playful waves and challenging the meaner ones. The rush of adrenaline it gave me whenever I saw one approaching while hanging on tight to my board. Buoyant and thrilling, being lifted high to the orange-pink skies. Simba-like.
This, I thought back then, this is the best kind of feeling there is. I was right.
At night, the grownups would play cards in a circle. We would sneak snacks and hot drinks to the upstairs room, chattering and laughing till the corners of our mouths grew sore.
Occasionally, we would go out for dinner, too. Crowded, large seafood tents. I was fussy and didn’t like fish. I don’t have any memory of what anything tasted like.
I do have memories, however, in our seemingly endless but actually limited number of visits, of these:
Catching a crab with a half-broken KFC bucket. Developing an attachment to it, then having to let it go on a very peaceful evening. My sister cried. We waved it goodbye. I swear it waved back.
Running full speed trying to chase a big eagle flying by. Finding a whole tempeh and burying it as a sibling monument.
Jo surfing right on top of Gran’s head. The whole family cheering out of surprise, fear, and amusement. The endless laughter that followed.
These I have the memories of, for how ridiculously important they are to me.
These, I will never be able to forget.
