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Sometimes they even tricked themselves into believing it worked . That the ocean wasn ’ t the only thing that kept the blood pumping through those veins . If it had been too long since they had been there they would slip into this funk , not knowing what was missing from their lives .
But the moment those brown haired goons crossed that bridge it was giggles and deep breaths . The singing from the radio got a little louder , they let their hair down , they kicked off their shoes , and the worries quickly drained from their faces .
They would stare as they passed the run down hotels in the run down beach town that they ’ d passed a million times with the love of seeing a long lost friend — a long lost part of themselves . That part of themselves that could only bloom with sandy feet and salt soaked skin . The part of them that the rest of the world would never understand . The weight off of their shoulders after leaving reality in the smog of the city they sped away from . Across that bridge anything was possible and they could be anyone .
They smiled more , laughed more , loved more , dreamed more . This place did something to them . They were the goons of summer . They longed everyday for the 5 am drives to Assateague with the boards and boys in the back . They lived for sunset bike rides , piers , drunken nights , and ocean baptisms . When you saw them across this bridge you ceased to even imagine them in any other world . Their energy was intoxicatingly infectious . It was unfair to think that they couldn ’ t always be this way . That they couldn ’ t bottle up the ocean air and let it loose into their other lives . These children born of the ocean .
C O L L E C T E D T H O U G H T S
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