I have avoided beaches most of my life. I hit the sand twice during college, living 30 minutes from Pensacola Beach.
Southern California’s beaches are pretty but a transcontinental flight from home. I don’t like the smell of East Coast beaches. I don’t like crowds at any beaches. As someone who takes two or three showers a day, the whole unshakeable sand sensation proves a hurdle. The germaphobe in me gets grossed out on boardwalks and carnivals. To the shock of my local friends, I’ve lived in Southern Virginia for fourteen years and never been to Myrtle Beach or the Outer Banks.
In contrast, the beach is my wife’s happy place. She usually goes with her girlfriends—even as far as the Florida Keys. She loves wearing colorful bathing suit covers, Hollywood-inspired sunglasses, and gigantic hats. Crystal is practically barefoot most of every day even without a beach. (I don’t even know the last time I saw her in sneakers.)
For my anniversary this year, I wanted to show my selfless love by taking Crystal to a Caribbean beach. I figured I could get some reading and writing done in the shade somewhere, while she warmed her freckles.
Through a lot of research, we ended up in Turks & Caicos. In particular, we spent three days at the remote Blue Horizon Resort on the barely-inhabited Middle Caicos. Our breeze-swept cottage overlooked miles of undeveloped wilderness, rugged cliffs, and a beautiful slice of the Atlantic Ocean. Meandering trails cut through the thatched flora down to powdery beaches and translucent water of at least six different concurrent colors of blue.
Even in the water, I didn’t smell salt or that signature aroma that seems to combine what I assume is fermented seaweed and fish flatulence. For stretches of time, Crystal and I were the only ones on the beach. One morning, it was just me. No umbrellas, no towels, no mass of waddling, entitled Americans interfering with the ocean’s songs. No seagulls, no dogs, no awkward old European dudes in thongs.
With a diverse landscape and unique rock formations, exploration broke up the laziness. Waves crashed out from under cliffs and exploded over jagged rocks. On a sand bar perpendicular to shore, angular waves sealed against each other like a zipper. The water crashing and sweeping in different directions often mesmerized me. The cliffs provided natural shade to escape the stickiness of sunscreen. The sand never got hot, even though the water was warm.
In short: I enjoyed everything about this beach getaway.
What I don’t know is whether or not I fell in love with the exception to the rule. I’ve been to seasides on four continents and to beaches in at least eight countries. This is the first time I’ve felt this comfortable with my feet in the sand and nothing to do.
I guess I’ll have to give another beach a try to know for sure.
