As I walked back to my chair after a chilly dip in the Atlantic Ocean, I took notice of a boy creating a comical scene. Instead of sticking my nose in a book, I decided to dig my feet into the sand and enjoy the show in front of me. The boy repeatedly threw himself into the ocean waves, purposely allowing each rush of water to toss him around and ram him against the sand.
As a Long Island child, I experienced many ocean beatings. Rule number one of swimming in the ocean focused on avoiding the wrath of waves at all costs. Jump over them, dive into them, but never let one suck you under. The end result of breaking this rule included a bathing suit full of sand, salt water down the throat, and a momentary panic that the wave would prevent you from getting a breath of fresh air for all eternity. Despite this universal knowledge, the boy seemed to gain pleasure from each wave that tormented him. He ran into the oncoming waves, letting them pummel him under for half a minute at a time. Each time he rose, a grin spread across his face as if he just finished his favorite ride in an amusement park. Sometimes he didn't bother to stand up, allowing several consecutive waves to crash over him and bully him to the ground. As hard as the waves tried, they could not knock this guy down from his euphoria. I envied his youthful enthusiasm and wondered why so many adults cease to have such innocent fun past a certain age. It took a long time, but the boy eventually did tire of his wave-crashing fun. He stepped away from the ocean, glowing with joy and glistening with salt water. He jogged up the beach toward his towel and passed me on his way. I smiled at him and he stopped to smile back. I commented on the fun he was having and asked him his age. “Thirty-two,” he responded. “I don't think children should get to monopolize fun.”
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