Up Cherry Run, we had never seen the ocean. We never knew the blue endless water. Never felt the sandy sea slide through our toes or searched for seashells by the seashore. Not that we cared. Not one of us little ones was concerned with mighty oceans up Cherry Run.

Up Cherry Run, we had rocks, and trees, and hills to climb. We could slip our feet into the cool creek water that flowed freely from the mountains, that gathered below the bridge where hardly anyone drove and where even fewer could see. It didn’t matter if we wore shorts or underwear or bathing suits or long shirts — as long as our bodies were in the water up Cherry Run.

One time, my grandmother saw the ocean. She and my cousins who lived in another state. They drove to the sea with vehicles piled full of clothes and towels and umbrellas and reclining chairs and blowup inflatable water toys and all the things that boys and girls and grownups need when they go to the ocean...

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