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Chapter 7

PRIVATE LIVES

by Diane Daniel

from The St. Petersburg Times

Life seems a little less fragile when you can depend on a special place to always be therefor you.

There is a tiny slice of the Gulf of Mexico that belongs to me.

Looking across the water, or down the shoreline, I see the past 20 years play over and over,2 like an old Super 8 movie.

I’m 16, writing poetry while sitting on a bench at sunset. I’m floating atop the salty sea on my yellow raft. I’m sitting at the water’s edge, gathering a rainbow of shells. I’m in college, burgundy hair glistening.3 I’m a working woman, thinking about my career, paying the bills. I’m heavy, I’m thin. My hair is long, short, long again. I’m happy, sad. Growing older, growing up.

My parents and I moved from North Carolina to St. Petersburg, Florida, when I was just about to start my senior year of high school.

It was a difficult time to be uprooted; I had lived in North Carolina all my life. But I loved the water, so Florida seemed an okay place to live.

I can’t remember how I first chose my special beach at the end of Eighth Avenue. But once I chose my spot, I never switched beaches.

Almost daily, I swam and sunned there. I watched the sun set. I thought about life. On weekend nights in college, I hung out at the beach with friends, playing music or just listening to the waves.

My bedroom at my parents’ house holds no memories for me. My memories of Florida are all a mile away, at Eighth Avenue beach.

I live in Boston now and visit my parents in Florida twice a year.

Whenever I visit, I spend many hours at my beach, usually under a hot sun, but sometimes at night, when the sand is cool and the sea seems to offer answers it won’t share during the day. I go to my beach not only to relax and think, but also to feed off the sea.5 The waves are gentle, the water soothing. But more important to me is the seas permanence and sheer force.6 I want to be strong like that.

During one visit to Florida last year, I was sad about the end of a relationship, and I knew that my sadness would worry my parents. I had to stop at Eighth Avenue before I could see them. After flying in from Boston, I drove straight to the beach. It was late afternoon in May, and the sun had softened. When I reached the beach, I parked at the end of Eighth Avenue and slowly walked barefoot to the water. I tasted the gulf, and with it, some hope.

I have taken a few friends to my sanctuary, but it’s not a place I share with many. Five years ago I brought Jack, a former boyfriend, and I’m glad I did. Now when I look down the shore or across the water, he is there, too, laughing at the pelicans as they dive for food, holding me while we watch the sunset from the edge of the water.

Jack will always be there. So will my friend J oEllen, who came to Eighth Avenue with me a couple of years ago. We walked and walked until the sun and sand had exhausted us. Sometimes I talk my mother into going to watch the sunset, and we sit on the bench, appreciating our time together.

Last year, I had planned to take Tom to Eighth Avenue. He was going to be the most important visitor of all, the person I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. A few days before we were supposed to leave, he changed his mind, about the trip to Florida and about us. I’m glad he never saw my beach.

As long as my parents are alive, I will go to Eighth Avenue. It has occurred to me that I will probably mourn their deaths there, listening to the waves and watching the gulls. I wonder how often I will see my beach after my parents are gone. I’m sure I will go there from time to time, maybe even stay in one of the cottages nearby that I’ve passed so often. But it doesn’t matter. My tiny slice of the Gulf of Mexico is always within reach.