Although I was born in Sarasota, Florida, my parents moved to land-locked Colorado when I was about two years old. On the run from creditors we then moved to Indiana where my parents both grew up.
Mom had told us several stories about living in Florida, and to a poor kid living in the Midwest nowhere sounded more exotic than the Sunshine State: plump oranges that grew on trees in peoples’ yards; an abundance of Cuban food, flavorful and spicy; the Flying Wallendas who lived behind a place my parents rented and practiced on their tightropes in their backyard. And the Gulf of Mexico. The vast sea. With dolphins and pelicans and sand dollars and conch shells.
Though Mom struggled to take care of four kids by herself she always tried to give us some kind of summer vacation. That usually meant renting small, often shabby cottages on one of the many freshwater lakes in Southern Michigan. I loved those one-week vacations because I loved the water. I remember the screen door slamming behind me, my bare feet pounding down the pier, hurling myself off the end into the dark greenish water.
I also loved the smell of the lake. Earthy and organic, the scent a combination of blue gills and sunfish, bait worms and four-stroke motor exhaust. It smelled like sunshine, like summer.
When I was 11 years old we took our first trip to Florida. My three siblings and I and Mom loaded our stuff into her brown Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Mom had packed sandwiches, chips and drinks because we couldn’t afford to eat at restaurants on the way. She timed our departure so that she drove through the Tennessee mountains at night. Afraid of heights, she didn’t want to see the drop-offs and scenic overlooks along the way.
Hot, tired and sweaty, our bare legs sticking to the vinyl seats in the un-air conditioned car, we stopped at the Florida welcome center when we crossed the state line. Drinking our free orange juice we looked at the large map on the wall. I couldn’t believe how far we still had to go to get to the ocean!
As we approached Tampa Mom exited onto I 275 instead of staying on I 75. It wasn’t until we crossed the southern part of the bay, on the Sunshine Skyway, that it finally smelled like the ocean. I stretched my small body up against my seatbelt to look out the open window at the water. My hair whipped around my face in the wind. Mom turned to glance at the three of us in the back seat and said, “Kids, here’s your first look at the Gulf,” as she gestured to the right, towards the inlet. She was smiling, her fatigue momentarily gone. I inhaled deeply, surprised at the smell of the sea, so different from the lakes I knew back home. It smelled sharp, and it smelled cool even despite the heat. It smelled like the smile on my mom’s face, the laughter from my siblings’ joy. It smelled like the promise of better things. Of the sky, vast and blue.
