| A Love Affair |
Dear Reader,
Let me tell you a story about my love affair with the stretch of sand between
Melbourne and Vero Beaches in Florida.
When I was a girl, my family spent weeks of every summer at Sea Dunes Motel on
the east coast of Florida. It was a sort of bare-bones affair, built in a double U
shape around an olympic swimming pool. A functional wooden stairway led down
to the beach. There was a restaurant on the premises. Since it was the only place
to eat for miles in either direction, it was pretty popular with the locals as well as
with guests. The Sea Dunes was nothing fancy, but to a kid who loved the water, it
was heaven. I spent my days wandering deserted beaches and swimming in the
pool, and the evenings rubbing Noxzema into my sun-fried skin. That was in the
days before we knew about skin cancer.
When I grew up and got married, I relegated the Sea Dunes to my past with other
childhood things, but the pull to return was as strong in me as in the giant sea
turtles who return every year to Melbourne Beach to lay their eggs in the sand
dunes. What stopped me from going back was fear that this image in my mind
was only that—an image. One day, I decided to chance it. I packed up my bathing
suit, and my long-time friend Dee Gardner and I headed south. We arrived on the
heels of a hurricane—not one of the bad ones, thank heavens—to find the Sea
Dunes largely unchanged. It was October and chilly, but the magic was still there.
The beaches were deserted except for fiddler crabs and terns that raced before our
feet. The sun sparkled on the water, gulls cried overhead, and I realized it was still
heaven to me.
The third year we returned, we were told that the Sea Dunes had been sold to a
land developer and would be demolished, to be replaced with single family homes.
My heart was broken. For me, it was truly the end of an era.
I stayed away for years, unable to face the change. Finally, I could stand it no
longer, and we packed the car and headed south. I steeled myself as we set off
down the coast. I had feared seeing the place in ruins: walls half-crumbled,
rubble strewn in all directions, but I had underestimated the speed of the local
builders. The new houses were finished; every trace of the Sea Dunes had been
erased. It hurt, but surprisingly, it was bearable. We continued on down to
Sebastian Inlet, another love from my childhood. The state had taken control of
the area when they put the bridge over the inlet and had built a long pier out over
the jetty where I scampered barefoot as a girl. Even the pier didn't spoil it for me.
As we headed back to the hotel, I realized that the magic I felt when I was in the
area was unchanged. I had thought my love was for The Sea Dunes, and it was, in
part; but, although The Sea Dunes was gone, the love remained. It had changed.
It had grown. That was okay. Isn’t that what love is supposed to do?
I hope you have a love like mine. If you don’t, I’m willing to share.
Let me tell you a story about my love affair with the stretch of sand between
Melbourne and Vero Beaches in Florida.
When I was a girl, my family spent weeks of every summer at Sea Dunes Motel on
the east coast of Florida. It was a sort of bare-bones affair, built in a double U
shape around an olympic swimming pool. A functional wooden stairway led down
to the beach. There was a restaurant on the premises. Since it was the only place
to eat for miles in either direction, it was pretty popular with the locals as well as
with guests. The Sea Dunes was nothing fancy, but to a kid who loved the water, it
was heaven. I spent my days wandering deserted beaches and swimming in the
pool, and the evenings rubbing Noxzema into my sun-fried skin. That was in the
days before we knew about skin cancer.
When I grew up and got married, I relegated the Sea Dunes to my past with other
childhood things, but the pull to return was as strong in me as in the giant sea
turtles who return every year to Melbourne Beach to lay their eggs in the sand
dunes. What stopped me from going back was fear that this image in my mind
was only that—an image. One day, I decided to chance it. I packed up my bathing
suit, and my long-time friend Dee Gardner and I headed south. We arrived on the
heels of a hurricane—not one of the bad ones, thank heavens—to find the Sea
Dunes largely unchanged. It was October and chilly, but the magic was still there.
The beaches were deserted except for fiddler crabs and terns that raced before our
feet. The sun sparkled on the water, gulls cried overhead, and I realized it was still
heaven to me.
The third year we returned, we were told that the Sea Dunes had been sold to a
land developer and would be demolished, to be replaced with single family homes.
My heart was broken. For me, it was truly the end of an era.
I stayed away for years, unable to face the change. Finally, I could stand it no
longer, and we packed the car and headed south. I steeled myself as we set off
down the coast. I had feared seeing the place in ruins: walls half-crumbled,
rubble strewn in all directions, but I had underestimated the speed of the local
builders. The new houses were finished; every trace of the Sea Dunes had been
erased. It hurt, but surprisingly, it was bearable. We continued on down to
Sebastian Inlet, another love from my childhood. The state had taken control of
the area when they put the bridge over the inlet and had built a long pier out over
the jetty where I scampered barefoot as a girl. Even the pier didn't spoil it for me.
As we headed back to the hotel, I realized that the magic I felt when I was in the
area was unchanged. I had thought my love was for The Sea Dunes, and it was, in
part; but, although The Sea Dunes was gone, the love remained. It had changed.
It had grown. That was okay. Isn’t that what love is supposed to do?
I hope you have a love like mine. If you don’t, I’m willing to share.
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Photo by Carol Crooks
Photos Courtesy of Susan Purdue
