When I was young on the beach,
Mother kicked the waves gently on my face,
covered with laughter, we are happy.

When I was young on the beach,
sand fills the plastic buckets, used to build a castle.
Gathering sea shells and searching for sand fleas.
That is my adventure.

When I was young on the beach,
Father laid down a yellow picnic cloth,
spread it with cold sandwiches and fresh lemonade.

When I was young on the beach,
I’d run to mother if the sand was too hot.
My curly long hair slapping me in the face.
I begged her to join me, just so she could check for sharks.

When I was young on the beach,
I’d grab my goggles and try to catch fish.
Much to fast, I’d try anyway.
Mother called me silly.
Later, in the hot afternoon,
She walked through the sand with me to the car,
carrying my buckets and shovels through the heat.
She promised we’d be back tomorrow.

When I was young on the beach,
Mather, Father and I walked through the sand once again, my toes curling.
The picnic was prepared and the water just perfect,
and sometimes we’d jump, through the waves not so high,
but we jumped anyway.