As I hastily jumped from the side of the boat, the blistering hot boards at the marina stung my feet. Oddly though it was a comforting pain, a welcome feeling and one I had experienced many times before.
Walking back to the hotel that day in April as the warm trade winds blew through my hair, the familiar kiss of the warm summer sun touched my skin, and the smell of sunscreen floated everywhere. I knew what the pain was all about. It was time to start preparing my “summer feet,” the ones that could walk over the scalding sand in July, take a stab from a rogue shell, or the poke of a splintering, weathered section of the boardwalk, all without a misstep. I stopped, sitting on the closest bench overlooking the Caribbean Sea and quickly slid on my flip flops. I could see the spot between my toes where the thong rests red, swollen, angry and the sides of each foot just as irritated. I wasn’t quite ready for summer just yet. I needed to prepare both physically and mentally.
As the plane touched down and we headed back to our home town, we all had a sense of euphoria rising. We had made it through yet another long, wet and windy winter in Ocean City. Climbing over the bridge at dusk and gliding into town that familiar feeling rose in our bodies once again. Not only happy to be home, we were encouraged that we could see signs of summer in town from the peak of the bridge. This was even more evident as we began our slow descent onto the island.
Trees were blooming, small blades of grass had begun to poke through, awnings hung, pressure washers were humming, and planters brimmed with signs of summer. Porch lights were glowing, and from our vantage point inside the car we could see the faint light of many more televisions glowing through the open windows. Outdoor furniture suddenly occupied the empty space on the front porch of each of the island homes, unfamiliar cars lined driveways, bikes scattered about the lawns, the line in hardware stores lengthened, and sheets of plywood were removed to give us peeks inside of the famed boardwalk restaurants and trinket shops.
Weeks later the smell of donuts interrupts my morning workout on the boards, and the thick scent of fried onions tempts me in the late afternoon while coasting down West Ave. The traffic reporter shows us the line of traffic headed our way, miles and miles of headlights facing south on the parkway. My son’s dirty blonde hair begins lightening ever so slightly, eventually ending in up in a streaky, sunny tone. It is a natural combination of color women all over town would pay good money for. As the summer sun begins to touch my daughter’s fair skin, she can’t seem to control the outbreak of freckles. The outside shower is scrubbed and ready for long breezy visits. The dustpan is full of beach sand from the gaggle of kids already invading my house.
Our deck is open and ready for our weekly Sunday dinners, no invitation required. My young nephew and resident deck DJ has our summer playlist complete. My husband applies WD-40 to the beach cart he uses to drag our well-worn beach chairs down to the sand. Each year he applies this hoping to get “one more season” out of it. The light above the ice cream shop on the corner stays on much later, and the line is now spilling out onto the sidewalk. Boats have been declared seaworthy for the season. They rest in the lagoon waiting for us to climb aboard and head out for a lazy sunset dinner cruise. More signs of summer are all around us.
And now the weekend is here. The countdown is over. The preparations are complete. It is the unofficial start of summer and the town is alive. We all have our own rituals to prepare ourselves for summer. If you see me I won’t be wearing those flip flops.
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