Currents

The beach is narrow and wide and we can, if not as lazy a bunch as we are, walk to it. Of course, we have the excuse of chairs, thermos, basket, and the other fol de rol that we just must have and so we drive down, and are shamed by our cousin who drops off all her stuff, drives her car to the house, and then runs back to the beach.

We only tolerate her because she got us all knitting again a few summers back.

I am anxious to feel the waters of Nantucket Sound. They've been promised to me as warmer and much gentler than the Atlantic surf that I can no longer manage with Wounded Knee.  The waves are tiny and the water looks clear but our faces fall at the blanket of sea weed that covers the sand down to the water and as far as the eye can see. The Little One is despairing and insists we leave.

But then we spot a sandbar that emerges as the tide goes out and the water around it sparkles with midsummer rays. Soon it is covered in brown arms and legs and boogie boards and skim boards fly like sleds on a snowy hill. In between the sandbar and the shore is a narrow channel and as the tide goes out, the current is swift, but the water only knee deep. The kids cross it to get to the sandbar and soon discover that the channel is the place to be as they float on their backs and are carried effortlessly to the shore.

Our sand chairs are at the waters edge and we put away our books and just watch the kids carried past us as if on a long flume ride at an amusement park. Some choose to use boogie boards, others have inner tubes, and most just jump in and lie back for the ride. One of the wee cousins needs his brother to catch him so he doesn't go under and his mother paces the shoreline, ready to wade in case he slips past us. I am sorely tempted to join them, but the wind is strong and I am quite cool and not sure about needing to be wet.

Then I notice a group of ladies of a certain age. One tall with blonde hair, one short with short dark hair and a baseball cap, one in between, squat as a fireplug. They are watching the kids with rapt attention and marveling at the fun. I am distracted for a minute by the need for cookies by our swimmers and when I look up,  the women are floating past us, sitting in the water as it on a magic carpet ride, their toes pointing every which way as they bump into each other and shriek. They look around at each other, unsure if they should be enjoying such a childish pursuit.  And then a sound erupts from them, the sound of pure, whimsical, childlike, full-throated, high-pitched giggling. Self-conscious in their delight, they yell at us, "It's really fun!" They continue to giggle as they float past us as graceful as baby ducks taking their first swim, their mirth a backdrop to a perfect mid-summer day at the beach.  They bob into each other and giggle and then give a full-throated cheer as they reach the end of the sluice and jump up to walk the sandbar and jump in again.