Popham Beach Revisited
Popham Beach and Fort Popham
This post was originally published October 19, 2023.
When the temperature is below freezing and snow sits in piles on the ground, most people probably don’t think “I’m going to the beach.” It’s become a more frequent occurrence for me though. In fact, I spend more time at the beach during the off-season than I do in the summer.
The first time I decided to go, I was driving south. Sometimes I just need to get out of the apartment and see the world, so I hop in my car and drive. I used to do it a lot on my lunch breaks too. After sitting in one place, it feels good to move, but the same question eventually poses itself: When do I turn back?
This is when I realized how close I was to one of my favorite places. Popham Beach was the go-to beach when I was younger. My family would wake up early, pack up the car, and spend the whole day there. It was an accessible adventure. Even with the erosion over time, the sand and waves would always be there for me.
Sometimes I miss those days.
Popham Beach
Not the waking up early part. I hated that. But years passed by, as I sat on that beach. The books I held up to block the sun changed. They cycled in genre and reading level. The watch I checked changed from a Tweety Bird to a simple leather one with a solar battery. I got bigger, and so did my problems.
But the waves never changed.
It’s hard for me to think at the beach. The rhythm of the ocean—moving in, moving out—it pulls me into a state of mindfulness, and like the tide, the thoughts can’t stick. They move in. They move out. There are no problems there, just me. I feel the biting wind and push my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. I watch my boots leave impressions on the wet sand. I hear the waves tease the shore. One moment they’re near me, and the next, they’re gone.
In the winter, the beach is quiet. Sometimes I see other people walking. Most of the time, I don’t. I only see the frost that clings to the bushes which line the shore, the seafoam that curls around washed up shells, and the breath that spirals out from between my lips.
So I keep driving down the curving roads along the coast. My car is pumping out heat with the speakers pumping out the sounds of my latest mixtape. I ask myself when I’ll turn back, and I answer: “When I reach the place where I forget that turning back is something I need to do at all.”
Popham Beach