I loved this wonderful place by the sea, despite always getting sick whenever we visited. It was where my Nana grew up going on vacations, where my Nana & Pawpaw took my mother and uncle, who would take us.
It was a magical place.
The three-and-a-half hours that it took to get there were always filled with excitement. No words could describe how no matter the weather, no wifi, and no one under the age of 40 (besides my sister), it was a place our bodies longed to go. A place where even at the ripe age of four, I stood crying in the driveway as my Nana & Pawpaw were about to take off on the journey. Crying, “but you always get to go to Rockport.” As you can imagine, I won the argument. My suitcase was quickly packed, ready for a trip to the coast, along with my sister and two cousins. The journey for two turned into the first of many summer holidays with the grandkids.
It was a freeing place.
It was also where, when I was six years old, we had to end the trip early due to my viral infection, which caused me to be severely dehydrated and resulted in my having to stay the night in the hospital back home while my poor mother was fighting pneumonia herself. It was where I caught my first keeper fish. Where we would go dolphin watching and crash into the waves as we sailed across the waters.
It was our place; until it wasn’t anymore.
The memories of fishing, dolphin watching, boat rides, puzzles, and laps in the pool before we could eat ice cream all took place here. In the cozy and moldy two-bedroom condo my Nana & Pawpaw owned. Rockport started to slip away from us as we got older and calendars fuller. First, it was selling the boat, so no more fishing. Then it culminated in selling the condo, which was sitting empty 99.5% of the year.
It was the place where our handprint became too small for us.