There’s something about the feeling of sand between your toes and the smell of salt-sea air. No matter how many times you visit the beach, every time feels like the first time.

I probably don’t remember the first time. I was a baby slathered in thick white sunscreen, and my head was covered by a massive frilly white sun bonnet. I’ve seen photos and videos.

I splashed in the water and took a nap on a massive beach blanket under an umbrella. As I got older, I graduated to a smaller bonnet and stylish sunglasses. In a couple of years, I was running for the water, diving in, and sputtering when the waves knocked me over. I was invincible. My parents were exhausted from pulling me back to safety.

I learned to swim and build sandcastles. I’d fill my bucket with seashells. My dad always persuaded me to put most of them back, so the fish would have something to play with after we went home.

I breathed in the air and listened to the sounds of the wind and the waves. I fed the sea gulls even though you’re not supposed to, but most of the time they helped themselves. They swooped in like fighter pilots locked and loaded on their target, a lowly pretzel or potato chip, or a sandwich left unattended – dozens of them vying for the same prize.

I learned to body surf  in spite of the sand that invaded my swimsuit and every nook and cranny of my body. I tolerated the sand fleas which were especially bad in August and September. My older sister Paula was timid. She never took to the beach like I did.

When I was older, I used to lie on my towel and daydream about Robby Mulligan. I haven’t thought about him in years. It’s funny how memories can be triggered by certain sights, sounds, or smells. Robby was a surfer, a few years older than me. We called him the Lion because his hair was long and flowing like a lion’s mane, and it was the same color gold. His skin was a deep brownish gold. Sometimes I could see a thin ring of white flesh at the top of his trunks. It made me wonder what he would look like in all his naked glory. That’s something I never admitted in confession. I agonized whether I would be sent to purgatory when I died because of that omission. Now that I have a few more omissions on my tab it hardly seems to matter.

It makes me smile to think about Robby. If I ever saw him again would I tell him about the massive crush I had? Would I ask to see what’s below that thin white line? The thought makes me laugh because I never actually got up the courage to talk to him while we were in high school. I mean I did talk to him a few times, but only if he spoke first. He’d say “Hey,” if we passed in the halls, and I’d bravely say, “Hey,” in response.

According to gossip, Robby left right after he graduated to try his luck on the surfing tour. That summer I started dating my first boyfriend, Ryan Hunt. Robby slipped to the back of my mind. Ryan hated the beach, but went to make me happy. We dated for three weeks before he dumped me for Sally Hodges, who also hated the beach. Time passed and other boyfriends came along. I never googled Robby to see if he made it.

After college, I accepted a job in Seattle. The last time I was back here was five years ago with Paula. We flew out to help our dad pack up the house the year after mom died. He moved to Portland, Oregon. Paula and her family live there, and it’s close to Seattle. Paula and I took an afternoon off from packing to go to the beach to breathe in the air, and feel the sun on our faces. Beaches out west are nice, but they don’t smell the same, and the sand is different. I went for a swim and helped a toddler build a sandcastle. Paula humored me and sat under an umbrella in the heat without complaining.

I’ve been at loose ends since my divorce. Dad suggested I take some time off and visit our old hometown. He knows how many happy memories I have here at this beach. He even offered to come with me. I turned him down because I know how much he hates being away from the grands (that’s what he calls Paula’s kids).

My hotel is right on the beach. I can get up in the morning and walk to my favorite spot where I’m standing now. I hear someone walking behind me.

I turn around and he says, “Hey.”

It’s him in all his lion-like splendor. He looks the same only more muscular and angular.

“Hey.” I answer willing myself to say more.

He starts to walk by then turns around.

“This is my favorite spot on the beach. Didn’t we go to the same high school? I used to see you in the halls and here at the beach sometimes. Blue bikini with white polka dots? I graduated with your sister Paula, Paula Harris, right?”

He remembers me?

I look at the thin patch of white skin just above his trunks and answer, “Yes. I’m Keeley Harris.”

“I was on my way to breakfast at the hotel, would you like to join me, Keeley?”