a real beach.

The nice mechanic at the Humvee garage was giving me suggestions on how to spend my free evenings in Michigan. He might have been willing to suggest himself as accompaniment, but I specifically avoided giving him a chance to do so. I told him that I wanted to go to a lake. He launched into directions on how to get to Lake Kensington.

"No, no," I interrupted. "I want something that people from home will have heard of. I want a Great Lake."

So that was how I ended up driving the rental car to Monroe, Michigan's Sterling State Park. I drove in and paid the $6 entrance fee with misgivings. What if I didn't like the park and wanted to leave before I gotten $6 worth of entertainment? I drove in and I saw some water, a small pond that looked like it might have a big sister off somewhere behind the trees. My misgivings increased. You'd think a mechanic who was trying to impress a southern girl would at least send her to a decent lake. A sign pointed up ahead "To beach." I might have laughed out loud, these silly inland states trying to say that they have a beach. Listen, you Michigan punks, I'm from North Carolina, and we have beaches. The graveyard of the Atlantic, they call us. The Atlantic - that's an ocean. People used to think that if you sailed far enough along that sucker, you'd fall off of the face of the earth.


The mini-pond near the entrance - I was already feeling disillusioned.

But I'd already paid my $6, so I decided to see what exactly constituted as a beach up here. I parked in a large lot and walked towards where all the people seemed to be. There was a public restroom and grassy picnicking areas. A couple of walking trails veered in either direction, and big deciduous trees gave shade to barefoot families. Finally, I caught sight of "the beach."

Okay, yeah, that's a real beach.

I felt like apologizing to Lake Erie, to Sterling State Park, to the entire state of Michigan for doubting them all. I don't even care if they carted all this sand in here, this is legit. There was sand, there were pink and brown children in funny little swimsuits, there were tiny, crunchy seashells that hurt my bare feet. There were even waves, albeit tiny ones that were probably caused more by the wakes of jet skis than gravity. Most of all, the amazing thing to me was that as I looked out across the water, I knew it was just a lake, but I couldn't see the other side. In Europe, this body would be called a sea. I felt like a moron, because I, being so skeptical of this thing that Michigan called a beach, had not brought my swimsuit. I'd brought it as far as my hotel back in Detroit, but I hadn't brought it to the lake. I hadn't known it would be like this.

I looked out of place and unprepared, but I wanted to enjoy this thing, so I rolled up my jeans, exposing my unshaven calves and ankles, took off my shoes and headed down the beach, right along the place where the water lapped at my toes. The water was a marvelous temperature - it would cool you off on a hot day, but was immediately warm enough to require no time to get used to it. I had my camera at the ready, and I took pictures of the lake, of the water that stretched to some other shore that I had to trust was there. I took pictures of the sand, the little children, the little green frogs that sat dangerously in the way of being stepped on. I kept an eye on the shells and rocks near my feet, so fascinated was I by these tiny freshwater sea creatures that, to me, proved this beach was the real thing more than anything else. I kept finding the shiny, pretty ones and cleaning them off in the water before dropping them in my pocket. I had no idea what I was going to do with a bunch of Michigan seashells, but it seemed the thing to do.


The real beach.

This lake, this freshwater ocean, it was like the good stuff about the beach without the bad. There was no salt or hot and sticky feeling, and the water was gentle enough that little kids could play without being tossed around. There were sandbars where adults would stand around and chat many meters out in the water, but only shin-deep.

I was having a great time, but I was lonely. I'm no stranger to myself, and I'm more than comfortable spending lots of quality time with Sandra. But this lake was so beautiful and surprising to me that I really wanted someone to be there to share it with me. I wanted my boyfriend to lie down on a blanket on the sand with me, I wanted my own nieces and nephews playing in the water in their various shades of pink and brown. I sat down upon some big rocks and called Josh. I told him about the seashells and the little frogs and the endless water and how much I wished that he could immediately transport himself to me, and could he bring my swimsuit? Then I called my mom and told her about how I'd gone to Detroit and now I was at the beach, like a real beach.

"Well, it's not like a real beach, I mean, there aren't seashells or anything like that."

"No, Mama, there are seashells. It's a real beach."


Lake Erie, a free-standing grill, and my shoes. Do you see the other shore? No? That's because you can't, not even if you squint!