America’s Atlantic Coast

I got to know the Atlantic when I was three. It was my first summer away from New York City, and the small house we rented was one block from Lido Beach on Long Island. Shovel and pail in one hand, mom’s hand around my other one, we set off to the beach early in the morning, when the sun dazzle on the water seemed particularly pretty. A sense of glee, that is what I can remember. A glee that came from letting the waves chase me, dribbling wet sand until castles formed, sitting where the foam lapped the sand. Summer day after summer day, this city child frolicked—yes, that is the word—in a new world, a world sweet with saltiness.

That summer is when the Atlantic imprinted on my being. A treasured, lucky time. To this day, be it in Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Delaware, North Carolina, or Florida—all the places in which I have experienced the Atlantic—I look forward, in a childlike way, to a day at the shore. The water, first and foremost, draws me, but close at its heels is boardwalk culture, taffy and cotton candy, the breeze that carries kites into the sky, maybe some wild brown ponies, and the knowledge that France is on the other side of the water.

—Sheila Buckmaster

Sheila Buckmaster is a Traveler senior editor.