Cocoa Beach

When my husband and I moved to Orlando, Florida in 2005, I had never set foot in the Atlantic Ocean. While I worked at my job in Kansas City the summer prior to resigning and moving, we had told ourselves that all the money I earned would be used to purchase Disney passes. Those plans did not come to fruition. But we discovered a place even more magical than Disney: Cocoa Beach.

Orlando is in the middle of the state, nearly equidistant from both the rocky Atlantic Ocean and the smooth Gulf of Mexico. But the state is a peninsula, a skinny strip of land cut into the water, and our home in extreme eastern Orlando meant that we were only a little more than an hour from Cocoa Beach.

There were two ways of getting to Cocoa Beach - the 528, or the "B-Line" (aka "beach line"), or the agonizingly slow but free route of Colonial Drive. We had little income coming in and were increasingly worried about how well our savings could pad our living expenses, and always opted for Colonial Drive. We would pass through the towns of Bithlo, Christmas, Merritt Island. Crossing the Indian River, the smell of the ocean would start to rise, until at last the street ran no more, and the dead-end roads backed long wooden walkways down to the sand and beachfront. Cocoa Beach had plenty of ample parking thanks to the plethora of city parks that backed the oceanfront. Parking was generally cheap and easy and convenient, except when it was not.

The first time we went to Cocoa Beach, it was August 2005 and our daughter was a tiny 15-month year-old who still had not broken 20 pounds. We came unprepared, without sand toys or towels or even swimsuits. My husband carried our daughter in his arms as we snaked our way down the wooden platforms onto the sharply hot sand below. Our daughter was fearful and had begun developmentally regressing for a time, but as soon as we heard the waves brushing against the strip of sand, something broke free within her. She rushed down to the water, over and over again, joy and delight breaking her face wide open as the warm currents trickled in. I found part of an old email my husband sent:

We went Cocoa Beach yesterday on a whim and had a great time.  Annie loved to run into the waves and get knocked around.  She'd get bowled over by a wave, squeal in delight, and hop back up.

Cocoa Beach became a regular Saturday trip for our family. In the summer, we learned to bring copious amounts of sunscreen and to arrive late in the afternoon to avoid scathing sunburns. In the winter, we once watched two of our best friends tie the knot in an intimate ceremony on the beach. In spring, we began making joint trips with family friends of ours, the moms sitting under any form of shade we could find and the dads supervising the children as they built sand castles next to the water's edge. In the fall, we made long walks on the beach, picking up seashells in pink plastic buckets that grew far too heavy.

The last time we went to Cocoa Beach was in 2014, when we came back to visit Florida. It was just as special as ever. We now have a home with a pool and have the resources to take the toll roads to the ocean instead of the cheapest route. But I doubt that any regular venue we could visit now would ever be as magical.