A Magical Piece

In one-way or another, we’ve all got it: that little piece of magic tucked away in a memory.

It might be locked up in the conch shell that your father first put up to your ear when you were a child. Maybe it’s hiding in the warm breeze that inscribed your first, real kiss on that August night. Perhaps, it’s in the wet footprint of your oldest child when he finally swam the deep end and ran to you in pride.

Whatever it is, one thing is certain- we’ve all got it.

It’s that image; that feeling; that one thing that comes to mind when you hear the magical word, ”summer”.

The first time we went to that little island, I was eight. They called it, “the Isle of the Palms”.

I can still smell the warm, salty promises of hours on the beach with my brother as we drove over the old drawbridge. Like all of our family vacations, the isolation forced a bond between the two of us. And as the youngest, I couldn’t have been happier.

We did everything together.

We hosted shelling competitions with the other kids staying on the beach. Even, though, I swear to this day, starfish beat sand dollars, the pretty blonde next store won first-place. (My brother was the judge).

By day, the island laughed in the sun as we splashed in the waves, never even needing to pretend. It was an oasis to our imaginations.

We busted through the screen doors in the early hours of the morning and didn’t return until sunset. It was on of those rare, safe places that we were allowed to roam.

Our parents reveled in the freedom of not having to worry.

The island was ours.

Every year after that summer, my brother and I would count the days until June, when we would return to our magical haven. And every year, our adventures grew with us. When I was 11, we made our mom drive us to one end of the island so that we could bike the whole thing—start to finish. Two pit stops, four water bottles and six miles later; we were looking down onto cloud nine.

The first thing we did when we got back to the condo was figure out how old one must be to join the Olympics.

Apparently, we had a few more vacations to practice.

The great thing about that place was that, year after year, it never really changed. Although, we’d grow from autumn until spring, and our interests evolved with age, we always had that promise to return to our untouched childhood.

That innocent memory existed off the coast of South Carolina.

On one of those rendezvous, something happened to me; something that was so amazing and so tragic to a 15-year-old girl.

For the first time, I fell in love.

We had been watching each other since the Saturday that I got there. And every time I caught his eye, a swarm of butterflies invaded my stomach. (Thank goodness for the justice that my sunburn did for my flushed face).

His family stayed two condos over and our parents meshed perfectly. Our mothers formed an instant sunbathing book club, while our fathers shared 8 a.m. tee-times at the island’s golf club. I would spend most days on the beach, brainstorming ways to initiate conversation with the boy. I’d stare at young couples, walking hand-in-hand, searching for any kind of inspiration.

Five nights before he left, I finally found it.

I volunteered to go on an ice run for my dad and there he was: barefoot on the dock, a fishing pole in his sun-kissed hands. I bit my lip, swallowed my pride and took 16 conscious steps to where he stood.

I looked at him.

He looked back at me.

A few too many panicky seconds passed.

I had to say something.

Anything.

“Have you ever read, ‘The Old Man and the Sea’?”

Oh my goodness. What did I just say?

He broke out into a perfectly straight, pearly white smile.

“As a matter of fact, that’s the only book that I think I’d read again.”

We both laughed.

In an instant, all of the anxiety and tension that had been building up for the past seven days, fled out of our bodies and into the trade winds.

That boy gave me my first kiss that night on the docks. By the end of the following day, he showed me my first love. And weeks later, when promises of phone calls lost hope, that boy gave my heart its first, real break.

Still, several years later, when I pass that dock each June, I can feel my heart beat a little faster and a few leftover butterflies flap their wings.

There’s something about summer that makes things a little deeper; a little stronger.

It’s something in the warmth of the air that revisits the innocence of our youth.

We’ve all got it. The difference is that some people keep their magic hidden behind years of adulthood.

I know what my “something” is. It’s that little island tucked away in the Lowcountry. It’s that quaint, magical piece that remains unchanged.

And I know that each June, when I return, I will become that kid, again.