Off We Go Like a Herd of Turtles

Whenever we went to the ocean, we had assigned tasks. Four children, two boys and two girls, all under the age of five—my sister grabbed the towels, my strong brother grabbed the cooler, my younger brother would collect the toys, and I, even then a bit too occupied with my appearance, usually got the sunscreen and hats. We repeated these acts so often they were second nature.

My mother, a large woman who was uncomfortable in a bathing suit, rarely joined in. She hid her body, herself, away from us most of the time. So when Dad called, off we’d run, four little children, bleached blonde by the sun, nearly impossible to tell apart. We’d gather the supplies and pile into the brown-and-cream-colored van that we’d named the Beach Wagon and say in unison, “Off we go like a herd of turtles!” while Mom watched from the window.

For especially long trips to the Connecticut shoreline, we’d add a plastic shell on top of the Beach Wagon to stow chairs and coolers in. We, of course, called this “the turtle.” So we’d go, in our herd, and unpack our belongings and begin our play.

One day as I grabbed my suit to head to the beach, I noticed it was still wet from the day before. It was draped across the shower curtain rod in the bathroom. The bathing suit looked tired.

“Daddy!” I yelled, uncertainty in my high-pitched voice, “my swimsuit’s still wet!”

“That’s not a problem, AprilJo,” he replied, walking in a few minutes later. His blue eyes beamed against his tan skin as he pulled out a pair of my brother’s bright-orange swim trunks and handed them to me. “Just wear these instead.”

So I did.

At the beach, I marveled at the way the water felt against my bare chest, imagining that somehow I was swimming in a different ocean. This new ocean was colder, more bubbly with water that was more slidey. One moment, I was a fish! Dolphin! Otter! I leapt face first into the waves, relishing the impact—an explosion of cold and salty goodness that left me tingly. I’d never noticed that in my ruffled one-piece I’d separated myself from so much feeling. My mother had always been pretty strict about the idea that a young girl shouldn’t wear a two-piece, but my father’s offering of the trunks was a beautiful glimpse into a world I didn’t know was so different. The water, which had always felt like home to me, offered me new secrets with each dunk. I followed the wispy trails of clams and shellfish underwater with my eyes open and watched the crossing light of the waves above me dance across my skin. I was more connected with the water than I’d ever been.

But a fish, I was not. After swimming for a while, I noticed the prunes on my fingertips and headed to the beach to warm up and dry off.

A group of children around kindergarten age, like me, had gathered to make sandcastles on the shore. My brother and sister were among them, Lorene in her fluorescent-pink suit, my twin, James, in a pair of bright-green shorts, similar to mine. Walking up, I recognized a boy and girl from school.

“Hi, guys,” I said, waving a wrinkled hand. “Can I join?”

The boy looked at me and grimaced, his face scrunching into a tiny rippled ball before it opened back up again.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” he asked.

Everybody working on the sandcastle put down their shovels.

At first, I wasn’t sure that he was talking to me. I looked over at James. Being twins, we have similar faces. The same big eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a mouth that seems too wide for the thin lips that surround it. And, in my current outfit, James and I had the same bare chest—ribs sticking out and deep holes where our collarbones jutted from...