As a child, my summer was defined by the weeks spent at Fire Island. Early each morning, I ran down to the beach carefully taking each step of my stride to avoid splinters from the boardwalk. As soon as I saw my father crossing the dune, I dove into the ocean and remained there for hours at a time. Barely able to see from the salt stinging my eyes, I repeatedly dove back in allowing my body to be rocked to and fro from the oncoming swells, anticipating the next wave solely by the rhythm of the ocean. At the end of the day, my chest was heavy from the salt air and I would slowly make the trek back to the beach house. We spent the evening storytelling attempting to postpone the inevitable deep sleep brought on from the exhaustion of the sea.

I find the beach to be a source of rejuvenation; a place where the business of city and career can be temporarily forgotten as my focus is forced on the next set of waves. Every chance I get, I make the journey across the Great South Bay and escape to the beach. I have yet to grow tired of endless hours spent playing in the salty sea.

This summer I was fortunate to have a short term subletter, enabling me to spend some quality time on Fire Island. And fortunate for Grace, the beach house worked out with her life schedule so we made a date of it. Two trains, a cab, and a ferry later, I met Grace at the dock and we set out for the sand and the sea.

There’s something about the ocean that makes it impossible to not act like a 10 year old. So we didn’t even try. We gave in to the will of the sea and played with whoever would join us. September may be trying to convince me that it’s fall but I’ll be out in ocean soaking up these last couple of weeks of summer. Care to join?