When I was two, my family moved to New York City. We lived there for three years. One of my parent's choice pastimes during the summer was to take my sister and me to the beach on Coney Island. According to my mother, we loved it, but I only remember the one time that things went terribly, horribly wrong (which might explain why I really hate the beach).
It was a perfect day. The wind was slightly stirring, the sun wasn't too hot, and the water wasn't too cold. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, though they weren't dark or close enough to be a concern. By all accounts, everything seemed normal, until the birds started to act a little strangely. There were only two or three, at first, but soon there were hundreds, thousands, of birds in the sky, all desperately flying to escape the island. Huge, black storm clouds formed, so quickly that it was like watching a nature video on fast-forward, and the roar of the waves was punctuated by sharp cracks of thunder. The wind stilled eerily for what seemed like an eternity. Everyone just stood there, unsure what to do. Then the tornado came slowly into view and the world burst into chaos. People were screaming and running, all headed toward the safety of the subway station, like panicked rats fleeing a sinking ship. The wind hit the beach with renewed force, throwing sand, towels, umbrellas, and beach chairs into the air. It was so strong that it ripped my diaper off my body and sent it flying with the rest of the beach debris. This was, understandably, very upsetting to me, so I spent the rest of our wild dash to the subway shouting for my diaper to come back. Luckily, we made it safely back home. But I will never willingly vacation on the beach again.
 |
| One of my latest Pen-and-Inks |
