Wobbly rocks beneath my feet are the first thing I feel when I think about the seashore across the road from my grandmother’s house in Goldwater, near Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. When my family visits my grandma’s, we always take a walk down to the seashore at least once a day. I remember running as fast as I could to the seashore, excited to chase the waves and smell the salty air. The sound of my grandmother’s voice calling out behind me, “Look both ways before crossing the street and BE CAREFULL!” will forever ring in my ears when I visit the seashore, even after she’s gone.

A busy highway separates the seashore from my grandmother’s house and cars are constantly buzzing by from dawn to dusk. Despite the thick smell of car exhaust pipes, and run down rubber tire tracks on the pavement, crossing the highway leads to a wall of roses. The roses hedges always emit a lovely aroma, of what roses should smell like and the irritating sound of insects swarming the hedges.

Then there are those wobbly rocks again. This is no sandy shoreline, so walking becomes difficult when I step on to the rocky floor, often on the verge of tripping or loosing balance. The shore is outlined with massive you could practically sun bathe on— and littered with mosaics of smaller, flatter misshapen rocks. These rocks are perfect for skipping in the way my father taught me. We would throw the rocks almost like a Frisbee, watching them skim and jump the surface of the water leaving rings of ripples behind them.

Looking out onto the sea there are groups of islands that look like lily pads floating on a massive, wavy pond. These islands are various sizes, and have always been to me like faraway lands with hidden treasures. My mom told me that she had once tried to swim out to what is called “big island”, until she was pulled back in to shore like a fish on a fishing line of my grandmother’s becks and calls.

The air is unruly at times on the water, sweeping up the scents of sea weed and the overpowering tang of salt water. The sticky and coarse texture of my hair after spending time on the shore, traps and leaks these scents long after I have again crossed the highway. Walking on the dried up seaweed makes a crunchy sound under my feet and fills the air with its distinctive perfume. Despite the smells of the sea, it’s hard to resist the smell of fish and chips filling the air around the Shoreline Canteen.

Seagulls constantly harass the people at the Canteen, begging for scraps of fries or pieces of bread. Their inarticulate and awkward calls are almost like pubertal choir boys being conducted by the crashing waves – a sound that’s much more eloquent. The waves at the seashore are never overwhelming, but are just loud enough to drown out the sounds of the busy highway. Their rhythm has always been calming and organic, no matter what is going on around me. Sometimes the natural rhythm of the waves is interrupted by the sounds of sea-doos or fishing boats roaring by, speeding up the pace of the waves. On quiet days, you can hear the creaking of fishing boats at the wharf near by, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the waves.

As we grow up, it’s often easy to forget to take in the essence of the seashore. Yet every time I go there I feel at peace with life—just the way my grandma’s nurturing voice makes me feel. No matter how old I am, I always be sure to take a trip to the sea shore and walk on those wobbly rocks.