I come from an island completely surrounded by water, water so blue-green you would swear it was made of paint. As a child, I frequently went to the beach with my parents, but for some reason, as I got older I never wanted to go. It was always boring; families with their picnics and everyone quiet and keeping to themselves. Six years had gone by and I had not gone to the beach once. I was so used to not going out on the sun that I used to say the sun was my enemy. I moved away in hopes of never having to deal with the beach again.
             When I moved to Florida, the idea to go to the beach came up, boredom had taken over, and I went. I always had these mental pictures in my head, obviously from movies of oodles of young people playing Frisbee, the young model-like women working on taking their skin to that next level of an orange-brown color and of course, the signature pier that goes on for days. When I arrived at the beach, a surge of disappointment came over me. The sand was made of grit and sludge, with a hint of cigarette butts popping up from place to place. It almost reminded me of one big ashtray. The smell was almost like a seafood factory the day before the garbage pick-up. The water was a charcoal black and when the sun hit it, you could see a hint of blue. This over-populated beach was appalling, the gritty sand and the murky, warm water made me actually appreciate the beaches in Cayman.
             As soon as I went back to Cayman to visit, I went to the beach. The sand felt like powdered sugar beneath your feet. I remember turning my face to the sun, taking deep breaths of the warm, salty-sweet breeze. I decided to take a walk. Except for the few natives with their brown and raisin-like skin, the beach was almost deserted. The water was so calm, almost like a pond, no movement. I suddenly felt the urge to break through it; I dropped my things and sprung off. I was surprised when the water ran from my head to my toes chilling my whol...