A Family Ritual

My dad liked to go to the beach at sunset. By then, the throngs of Southern California beachgoers were heading back to their cars, leaving plenty of good spots to park our car in the lot and ourselves on the sand.

As a young teen, I could spend all day at the beach, and preferred to be there in the heat of day, tanning, body surfing, and watching couples holding hands as they walked the shore, dreaming of the day when I'd be old enough to do the same. But I loved the ocean, and going in the late afternoon with my parents and brother was better than not going at all.

Going to the beach at sunset became a bit of a ritual once my dad got a cell phone. My dad is a doctor, and when he was on call, going places without easy phone access wasn't possible. But the cell phone changed things.

This was no pocket-sized contraption, and was the most unlikely of beach accessories. So while my mom and brother carried the standard blankets and bags of supplies, and I carried my own towel and bag (lest I be caught sharing the same space with my family), my dad would trudge down the sand carrying his phone by its handle, looking more like a car battery or military issue radio than mobile phone. But that device gave us freedom.

My family were not active beachgoers, rarely bringing paddle ball sets or roller blades for the boardwalk. We would walk as close to the water as we could without worry of the incoming tide and spread our blankets on the sand, shoes and bags anchoring the corners. My brother and I would listen to music, watching the waves mingle with the seaweed, birds and people along the shore.

Once the sun started to dip below the horizon, and sweatshirts came on over bathing suits, we'd pack up our belongings, and shake our towels away from the wind. We'd make our way back through the soft sand to the parking lot, avoiding the cigarette butts and bottle caps that marked the transition from sand to sidewalk. After a brief stop at the low retaining wall to brush off our feet as best we could and put on our shoes, we would pile back in the car and head back through the streets of LA toward home.

This week's RemembeRED memoir prompt asked us to write a memory of sand. I have so much more to write about this, the feel of the sand in your bathing suit after returning home, emptying shoes into the tub, the restaurant where we often stopped before coming home. But those will have to wait for another day.