I watched the teenagers of By-the-Sea run and jump into the freezing-cold water and thought about howmany of them would be leaving for the very first time in September. After a few minutes, Colin Osmond folded his exceptionally long legs into pretzels and sat down next to me, deftly maneuvering his way around the many bras and undies and shoes that littered the blanket. We’d gotten to know each other when I’d dated his sister, Verity, last year, and we’d remained friendly after we’d broken up.
“Never understood this,” Colin said. “That water iscold.”
“Freezing,” I agreed.
“Two more months, though,” he said. “Can you believe it? It’ll be my first time off.”
Off the island. Away from By-the-Sea. Another small contingent of freshly graduated By-the-Sea teenagers stepping onto the ferry and leaving home for the first time in their entire lives.
It actually wasn’t as weird as it sounded. Most kids didn’t leave until college. Although small, the island had everything you might need: a four-lane bowling alley; a high school, middle school, and grade school; and one grocery store (that admittedly did sometimes run out of food, but we had learned to stock up and also cultivate little gardens).
“It doesn’t seem possible,” I answered finally. And it didn’t. In that moment, the entire world was just By-the-Sea, just the Beach, just my sister dancing in the ice-cold water.
“I know what you mean,” Colin agreed. “Like we’vebeen waiting our whole lives and now it’s just around the corner.” He knocked his knee into mine. “All right, we should at least get our feet wet.”
So we waded out up to our ankles in the water, and I tried to decide what laughing, soaking-wet shape was my sister, or Vira, or anyone.
Mary found me quickly enough, running past me like a bullet to get to her dress on the blanket. She pulled it over her head and then came back to where I was standing.
“Every year,” she said. “Every year I forget a towel. Hi, Colin.”
“Hi, Mary,” he said.
One by one our peers emerged from the water, running back to wherever they’d stashed their clothes, wrapping themselves in blankets and towels if they’d been smart enough to think ahead.
Colin wandered away, and Mary and I picked our way back to the blanket and settled around it in a lazy circle. Shelby lay down in the middle, looking up at the stars.
Abigail packed a fresh bowl and passed it around our small group. I took only one very small hit, because Abigail’s stuff was homegrown and strong and I was a lightweight and didn’t want to get lost on the way home. Mary skipped it altogether, probably because the last time she’d smoked weed she’d drifted lazily upward and almost decapitated herself on a ceiling fan. “This is nice,” Shelby said, prone to the sentimental when she’d had a little of Abigail’s stash.“This is like the first night of the rest of our lives.”
“That’s exactly what I said!” Mary said.
“Every night is the first night of the rest of our lives,” Vira retorted.
“That’s exactly whatIsaid,” I said, and then I hugged Vira because she was the most perfect princess in the world.
Oh shit. See? That was the weed.
After a long stretch of quiet, I nudged Mary and asked, “Ready? You’ve dancedandswum naked. Swimming wasn’t even part of the deal.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready. Has anybody seen my shoes?”
Someone tossed them to her, and after a lot of hugging (dancing naked really endears you to people, and we were a huggy group anyway), Mary and I set off back up the Beach, back toward Bottle Hill and Fernweh Inn and our attic home and our nice warm beds.
And that was how it was: the start of every summer since Mary and I’d been old enough to figure out how to sneak out of the inn. The revelry and singing would grow louder and louder. Eventually the rest of the party (sans Mary and me, who would already be safely home) would be broken up by the sheriff or deputy, a lackluster police involvement that was more out of duty than any real passion for the laws we were breaking. (Beaches closed at dusk; underage drinking; lack of proper permits for a bonfire; indecent exposure.) We would not get enough sleep. The birdheads would arrive tomorrow, dozens of them, fillingup every corner of the inn. They would bring us presents, the ones who’d known us since we were kids. They would hug us and tuck postcards and five-dollar bills into our pockets. We would get no damn rest or privacy for the next two months: the season of Annabella. Arriving like clockwork. All the fuss in the world over a silly little bird—who, I admit, I loved more than any of the birdheads, more than any of the islanders, because I felt somehow that she belonged to me, to all the Fernweh women, in a way, but especially to me.
The moon drifted in and out of existence. My sister took my hand and squeezed, and I felt that squeeze on my fingers and somehow on my heart as the singing drifted across the sand to reach us:
On By-the-Sea, you and me will be forever young...
Oh, By-the-Sea, island of Fernwehs and everything I had ever known and loved. How I would miss you—every part of you—but especially the smell, always the smell: of salt, of brine, of water, of spells, of potions, of feathers, and of what it would mean to leave it all in just two months.
Check-In
Mary and I were born in a rainstorm that flooded the streets and overwhelmed the sewers and drowned the beaches of By-the-Sea and turned everything wet and gray for seven days.
I’ve heard this story many times, enough times that it feels like I actually remember it.
My mother was in the kitchen, cutting wedges of lime to squeeze into the virgin margaritas she’d been addicted to during her pregnancy. She felt off—nothing enormous, just a tiny headache, a sliver of fatigue, a faint unease in her abdomen.
