Sapphire water as far as the eye can see. Faint outlines of seagulls diving and swooping through the clear sky. A brisk breeze that stings your skin while the sun simultaneously warms it. Conflict between water and sand as waves crash onto the shore, icy water inching closer to the mysteries behind the beach.  

If I asked you to name the environment I just described, what would you say? Perhaps you said the ocean? 

I’ve always wondered what living next to the ocean is like. Do people there have less problems? Are they instantly cured by the salt water and sunshine? I’m still searching for the answers to those questions since a small town in Wisconsin offered me no such thing. However, maybe it harbored something a little better.

Lake Michigan, one of the five Great Lakes, stretched all along the north side of Milwaukee—where I just happened to live. I didn’t live on a mainstream beach; I didn’t have cars parking in front of my house and families lugging beach chairs and coolers through my neighborhood, but I did have a rickety, wooden sign, only a five-minute bike ride away. The sign was a peeling, chocolate-colored paint with bright yellow letters spelling out “Virmond Park”. Behind the sign lied a paved path—it was almost hidden if you were going too fast.

The path stretched on for miles (or so it felt to my tired biking legs), and it ebbed and curved with the flow of the land. In reality, the drive up the path was about one minute long. Overgrown grass shouldered each side; lanky sage and yellow blades swayed with the breeze. The real treasure was the destination—a special treat for completing the path. A blanket of rich green grass replaced the tall blades, spreading into a field peppered with sunshine-colored dandelions. Turning left on the path led to a playground, including a steep metal slide— a thrilling ride in my younger years— and tennis courts— where I learned that hitting a neon ball with my mom’s old racket was a lot harder than it looks. As I grew older, I stopped turning left on the path. Heading straight on the path led directly to the field, forest swallowing the east and the west sides.

The north side, however, pulled my eyes away from the greenery and caused a hitch in my breath every. Single. Time.  There she was: Lake Michigan. My own version of California’s sunny beaches stood just out of my grasp. The field abruptly comes to an end and drops off into a steep decline. The bluff wasn’t impossible to climb down; roots and scraggly trees protrude from the eroded earth. It wasn’t an easy climb. On a hot summer day, the dirt is dry and crumbles under the weight of a fifteen-year-old, but on a rainy day, the dirt becomes mud and sends that same fifteen-year-old girl sliding down the hill, ruining her shoes, shorts, and pride.

If you were brave enough to climb down, you emerge from bushes, trees, and mosquitos to see the bluff become beach. The beach was rocky and small; the water was cold and smelled of dead fish. Seriously, this beach would be a laughingstock to most people. But it’s mine. Every summer I braved the arctic water biting my stomach and seashells piercing the balls of my feet. It was a hidden gem in my suburban town.  

The beach was seasonal, and often not the reason for my visits to Virmond. In a world that prioritizes speed and progress, Virmond was a pocket of peace; stepping onto the field meant I could finally breathe. Every season brought on an essential aspect that made Virmond a home. 

I don’t think everyone felt this park was a year-round attraction. Even though it was public, I felt as though it was my most private oasis in the winter. In January, when the land froze over, the path turned into nature’s ice rink while the field harbored thick sleets of powder snow. Nobody ventured to Virmond with me… Except my dog. Hershey and I would bundle up and trek through the snow, slip on the ice, and breathe so deeply our lungs frosted over. My usual sapphire water was stuck in place—waves frozen mid-crash. It felt wrong to see, as if I caught nature glitching. But I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the glistening beauty of the paused lake.   

Spring brought a new excitement of comfort in the outdoors again, no longer scared to feel the sting of the air. My visits to Virmond became more frequent, sometimes alone, and other times not. There were times, as I neared graduating high school, where I needed a minute to think and reflect. It hit me on an April night, while staring at the waves repeatedly tumble and crash, that I would be moving 800 miles away in a few short months. I wasn’t ready. My eyes watered the grass that night. My deep-rooted comfort in Virmond was a feeling and a space I wanted to gatekeep. I’ve shared Virmond with a total of three out-of-towners. My two best friends would drive thirty minutes just for an evening picnic of taco dip and fruit salad. The third was the first person I ever fell in love with, I excitedly showed him my favorite tree and sitting spots on a late afternoon in May.

Fall was a canvas of the colors so rarely seen in the former months. The trees burst into vibrant yellows and oranges; the air carried a small reminder that winter was approaching. The constant cover of clouds brought sunsets only a privileged eye would see. Most mornings the sky matched the tree’s falling leaves, contrasting the usual baby blue. My sister and I stood on the bluff in our school uniforms to soak up the painting—not caring we would be late for school.  

Virmond has that power over me. It erases my worries and cares, I become the person I desire to be. You know what? I don’t care that I don’t live by the ocean.