At Her Pace
Tate’s eager to get to the beach from the second we arrive.
It’s a tram ride from Nana’s house and takes some schlepping. But, for me too, we’re not really there until we see the ocean and feel the sand beneath our feet.
It’s been a long day but the humidity and warmth soothes our travel nerves and allows us a bit of energy. To take in the sunset for our first night, we decide to have dinner at the beach. We dig through our suitcase, pull on sundresses and make our way.
While Nana hangs back to get us on the list for a table, Tate and I scramble down to the water. Though she does so a bit tentatively, we race.
At four, though Tate’s a confident swimmer, she hasn’t yet let go of me in the ocean, even on days there aren’t any real waves. The Gulf, fairly calm tonight, still takes her breath away.
We hold hands and let the foam touch our toes and both squeal. Again and again. We run from the water creeping up, spreading like mercury over the sand and then chase it back down. Turn and run again. Back and forth.
Then, we stop and wait, still holding hands. Jumping the tiny lips of the waves together as they gently approach, delighted by the small splash of landing.
I watch Tate trust in me to keep her safe. Trust in herself to make it over each little one. A great beginning to our annual visit.
*
Before I know it, it’s our last night. With the sun lowering in the sky, we take our last beach walk to soak it in.
We’d spent most of the week playing and building in the sand. Though Tate’s comfortability with the ocean had come a long way this year, we still went in together, with me holding her securely in my arms. When any size wave came, Tate mightedly squeezed my shoulders and head as we bounced over them.
More and more, between waves, she’d let her arms loose and swing them open wide. Huge. But, boy, I wished she’d let go more.
Tonight, walking along the water’s edge, I’m looking for a few last seashells to bring home and she’s running through the funny-legged sandpiper birds behind me. Suddenly, I hear her cheering, chanting. With the waves, it’s hard to hear what.
She’s clearly talking to herself, the warm sky, the birds. But, seems to be enraptured in what she’s doing, claiming, proudly declaring. I stand, smiling, and watch her little feet pitter-patter through the small waves across the shore.
She moves confidently, from her spirit, and buoyantly. Legs strong through the low waves. Arms bent. And that’s when I hear her.
“I’m doing what I’m most afraid of! Look at me! I’m doing it! I’m running through what I’m scared of!”
I’m humbled. Awed by her courage, but mostly how she recognized it more than me.
I watch her celebrate herself. Little arms pumping, heart singing, boldly running through the water, conquering. A moment her body will never forget. A vacation - complete.
And at her pace. Not mine.
