My family fell in love with a small island
off the coast of BC the summer I turned two.
Being charmed by the long, soft sand beaches and preserved natural
beauty we ended up being there for barely a week before my dad started looking
for a house to call home. All of my
fondest summer memories were made in the meadows of tall dry grass, under huge
old trees begging to be climbed, on the hidden cliffs below our property and of
course the white sand beaches surrounding the outer edges of the island. This is my happy place. It sounds cheesy but there’s no other way of
putting it. The feeling of sand moving
freely underfoot with every step taken has been one of my favourite feelings of
bliss since before I can remember. There
really isn’t a favourite memory that comes to mind when I think of walking on
sand. It’s completely impossible because
each time I step off the narrow blackberry boarded path to the beach it’s
different from any other day, and every day it’s amazing in it’s own way. To me, always changing is one of nature’s
most beautiful abilities. Not dramatic
changes but the little ones that can only be found if you really know what to
look for. Like the water is trying to
tame the mass of sand and logs, cleaning and moving everything with its waves
while we sleep. Sometimes the waves turn
the sand cold and hard, making footprints that last only a few seconds before
the salty moister in the sand take them over.
Feeling heavy when scrunching underfoot and numbing the very tips of my
toes but sticking to anything and everything it can. Other days will bring warm, soft, white sand
that just makes me want to curl up on it and take in every bit of sunshine
being reflected off each grain of perfect sand.
The sand breaking in with every step taken, perfect footprint being left
behind as I make my way down the long waterfront. A million different experiences from the same
spot, the only difference being the day or month or even year. This is what comes to mind when I think of
the feeling of scrunching sand in your feet.
