AWAY TO LAST CHANCE BEACH by Hannah Rowan

I don’t remember learning to swim.  It’s something I’ve done as long as I can remember.  As a small child I lived in the big city of Newark, NJ, where chances to swim were pretty slim.  We drove out to the wilds of New Jersey to swim in a small lake, and I can still remember my mother frantically trying to convince me to come out of the water as thunder and lightning crashed over my head.

Fast forward a few years and I had moved to the country, where we went even further west to swim in a man-made lake fed by a mountain spring.  Bones chilled, teeth chattering, and lips turning blue—I refused to get out of the water unless it was to climb up the high dive to take a leap.  I did my own version of water ballet, stood on my head, trying to hold my breath for a world record, and swam back and forth to the raft in the center endless times.

When my sister got a boat she sailed on New Jersey’s largest lake, we’d motor out to the deep water and jump off the side to swim.  Even when my brother told me about the giant snapping turtles lurking below, who loved to munch on little girls’ toes, I jumped in anyway.  Only the promise of an ice cream sandwich at a nearby amusement park---a slice of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream between two toasted waffles—lured me from the water.

In high school I earned my life-saving certificate, though to date I’ve never had the need to use the lessons.  The one I remember best was that I could save even a man much larger than me by swimming up behind him and grabbing hold of the hair under his arms.  Apparently the pain was supposed to distract him from struggling and potentially pulling me under. I’ve never had the occasion to try that one out and probably don’t want to.

The first college I attended sported a beautiful Olympic-sized pool, and in order to graduate a student was required to pass a swim test.  (I think they were trying to justify spending so much money on a pool.)  I could have tested out of swim class, but I was busy drinking coffee and eating glazed donuts in the student café.  We shared ugly, ugly, ugly swimsuits made of t-shirt material, bleached and stretched beyond recognition.  Not an attractive option.  In winter, with my hair almost to my waist, the thought of rushing to the next class in another building with hair that took forever to dry was just too much!  Those glazed donuts in the café again!

As newlyweds and apartment dwellers, my husband and I searched for places to swim all summer.  We were finally fortunate enough to buy a house with a pool, and not only have a place to swim, but a place to toss our children in the water so they could swim, too.

Just about every vacation we take involves a beach, though.  From our honeymoon in Kennebunkport, Maine, to a post-retirement cruise stop in Cozumel where I learned how to snorkel, from the Blue Lagoon in Iceland to a glacial river in Alaska, and so many beaches in between, I guess you could say our romance also includes a love affair with the water.

After all, what’s more romantic than the scent of the ocean and the sound of waves crashing on the shore, whether enjoying hot sun or cozying up with a blanket and a hot drink on a cold day?  Something about the water brings a sense of peace I can’t find any place else, especially in these difficult days
.

It’s quite possible a person could find the same serenity, or even romance, in a place called Last Chance Beach.  The legend begins here… The Legend of Last Chance Beach

Why don’t you join us there?  Come on in, the water’s fine!

And don't forget your chance to win an Amazon Gift Card!