Trares
The wave broke in a flurry of seafoam and squeals of joy.
Anthony dove forward, letting the power of the sea toss and turn him in a blur of fluorescent yellow goggles and bright green swimming trunks. Before the next wave rolled in, he scrambled to his feet in preparation.
As Anthony’s school started its fall break, our family embarked on a vacation that had been in the works for more than a year. In our planning, the goal was to achieve a few different things.
We wanted to go somewhere sunny and warm, where Anthony could swim in the ocean — he’d only been once before, when he was 3 years old.
We wanted to take him on his first airplane ride. And we thought if we could work Disney World into the mix, we would.
All of those elements together brought us to central Florida, where we’d spend half the week just south of Tampa and other half in Orlando.
The entire trip was magical, filled with too many special moments to lay out here in this column. There were seafood shack meals, long afternoons by the pool, chances to meet Mickey and Minnie and way too many souvenirs. I’ll hold onto the memories we made for a lifetime.
But one thing has stuck with me as we’ve returned to real life — the time we spent on the beach, frolicking in the ocean.
Our condo was located on Siesta Key, an island in the Gulf of Mexico where I had been a handful of times as a child. Siesta Beach is a beautiful stretch known for its soft, white sand and gentle, shallow water. From the moment we drove onto the island, Anthony couldn’t wait to get to the beach. So even before we fully unpacked, he was in his swimsuit whining at the door.
And for the next three days, we put in hours of beach time. Anthony was tentative at first; strong winds had kicked up some raucous waves, so even though the water only rose to his waist out on the sandbar, the sea was a frothy jumble.
But he couldn’t be stopped. Holding my hand, we waded out, then braced ourselves for each new breaker. Sometimes, he’d lose his footing and dunk underwater, only to bounce up hysterically laughing and wanting more. A few times, he was only blindsided by especially large waves he didn’t see coming — just enough to spook him into resting on the beach for a few minutes, and remind him how tricky the ocean can be.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever laughed as hard, for as long, during those beach days. My wife would join us as well, even if she preferred her beach chair in the sand to the sloppy sets of waves. But she led Anthony in making a village of sand castles and moats, spending time with him on dry land.
Looking around the beach, I saw families of all kinds doing the same things. Kids were digging pits in the sand while their parents helped scoop. Others were taking advantage of the strong breeze to fly kites, or throwing the football back and forth in the shallows.
There were no iPads or phones, no digital devices to be found.
Just loved ones spending quality time together, and loving every minute of it. We were right there with them. That’s what made this trip truly magical.
Ryan Trares is a senior reporter and columnist for the Daily Journal. Send comments to [email protected].
