Legend has it that a Spanish ship crashed off the shore of Assateaque Island and a group of horses swam to shore. They populated the deserted island, thus making Chincoteague and the likes famous for the group of courageous, wild ponies. If you made it to Chincoteague, you could grab bikes and ride across another long bridge to the pony island. There, on the wilderness loop,  tourists past raccoons digging clams out from their beds and see egrets flying through the air. And on the good days, the days when a whole lot of people stayed home, you could see the bands of ponies running. Like any 8 year old horse fanatic, I would beg to sit and watch them for hours. Feeling home sick with longing, I’d wish I could run beside them.

Chincoteague never changed much between the seasons, and if I close my eyes, I can still remember driving over the long draw bridge on our way to the island. Dad would make us roll down our windows, and he’d say, “Smell it yet? Smell it?” I can still smell the hot, sticky air as it hung low above the marsh. Clam diggers scattered along the sides of the highway would stop their tasks and wave, as if welcoming us back to our summer home.

We called it our grandparent’s beach house, but it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized it was just a glorified trailer with a screen porch built it. It wasn’t much, just a retirement trailer park community, but it was a plastic flower, garden gnome, “get off my lawn” summer haven for us kids. Grandma and Poppop would sit outside day long, talking to their friends through the screens of their porches while the grandkids organized the Chincoteague 500 and would race our bikes in circles until the ice cream truck would pass by on its daily route. Grandpa’s boat spent more time in the repair shop than it ever did in the water, but I remember learning how to string for crabs instead of using those “damn lazy man crab traps.” He’d listen to his radio, singing as he patiently waited for a small tug on the line. The trick is to wait for the tug, as soon as you feel it, slowly start pulling the string up. Pinching with your left, then you right. Never let the crabs know their moving in the water.

We’d apply as much sunscreen lotion as would fit on an 8 year old redhead and I wore a hat that covered my entire face. As the sun would set, we’d steer the boat back to the dock, with a bucket full of crabs and faces full of freckles. Grandma would fuss in the kitchen as I ate mac'n'cheese and everyone else cracked open their crabs.

The days when Grandpa’s boat was broken, we’d explore the campground, picking up the good shells and kicking up the rest, stopping only to pick up a cold glass bottle of Coke from the community store. Big blue, yellow, and red crab traps towered to the ceilings. A few pastel tourist tees from last season were stacked high next to the racks of fishing lures and poles. Two coolers sat side by side, one buzzing with the sound of live bait, the other full of condensation and ice cream bars. As we would run inside to slap our dollars down on the filthy glass counter and grab the ice cold cokes, we would glance sideways at the strange internet cafe the owner set up, probably with free AOL CDs.

There was a glass recycling bin on the way out of the door, back to the bright white streets made from bleached seashells. In front of the store was an old swing set and jungle gym. If we turned to the left and ran down one block, we’d be at our grandparent's beach house. But if we turned right, ran through the campground, past the restaurant, and down the dock, we could throw our shoes off our feet and watch the fishermen come in with the tide.

We’d sit there looking out over the water trying to spy the ponies on the island until we heard grandma yelling about supper.

I'm not sure why I wrote this today, other than the fact that I got a cold glass coke and walked around in the sunshine for a bit, and started daydreaming. But it felt good to go back for the few minutes I was writing. Sometimes I think we just need to tell stories.

I miss that time and place. My grandparents long sold that broken boat and have since sold their trailer. I wonder if there is still an internet cafe. I'd like to go back, but I'm afraid the picture perfect memories I have would be tarnished by today's commercialized reality, then I'd wonder if it were ever picture perfect or just my young mind making it such.  

For now, I’ll just sit here and enjoy this coke in the sunshine and watch the ponies running.