At night, Ocean City’s boardwalk comes to life with sound and light. But when I think of my first trip to the Maryland resort town, what I remember best is the time I spent with my father there.

Our week at the beach was almost at an end. My dad took me out to the boardwalk one last time, and I was particularly excited because it was very late—way past my bedtime. As always, people strolled up and down the old boardwalk; all kinds of people from chubby toddlers to elderly couples holding hands and talking in soft voices. We looked in the shops and ate ice cream, the two of us, a father and his happy little girl. After a while, we paused by a ragged set of wooden stairs leading down to the beach, listening to the ocean’s distant hiss.

“Is that a play-place?” my dad wondered aloud. I looked out at the dark beach—sure enough, a small play set in the shape of a tractor stood alone down the shore.

“I wanna see it!” I took my dad’s hand and together we walked across the sand toward the tractor. I squealed with delight when I saw a rope ladder leading to the “driver’s seat,” to which a big slide was attached, shining with sea-spray like a bright yellow ribbon.

“Careful, sweetie.” I remember his smiling face, his blue eyes filled with a happiness that was only there when he was with me.

“This is so cool!” It seemed perfect—a playground on the beach on this night with my hero. My father, watching me carefully as I stood at the top of the slide, laughed with his usual warmth. “I’m going down the slide…” I warned.

“Uh-oh…” he responded amusedly.

“Catch me, daddy.” I sat down on the slide, heard the sounds of people laughing in the distance and of the ocean roaring dully. Thrilled and proud, I sailed giggling down the slide and into his protective arms, so certain that he’d always be there to catch me. That night, and for the ten years that followed it, he was.

Ele
Shelley
Cole