Sunrise Over LBI

By:  Rachel Orenstein

Wednesday, June 12th, 2024

Long Beach Island, a town with a self-explanatory name, rests easy along the Jersey shore. Parallel waterfronts envalue every inch of the thin strand; to the west, a gentle bay promises smooth waters for family paddling. To the east, salty waves soothe you to sleep on sun-bleached sand. There is peace. Quiet reposition. The island is alive but in the way a wild tortoise is alive - lucky to have survived its inception, now moving slowly through a long life. Warm and dry and well-fed (because it does not need much to be happy), the island and the tortoise both soak up the sun.

Along the one main road, tires wear sand against hot pavements. Every road leads to the water, though they trace paths around ice cream parlors and swimsuit shops. Million-dollar vacation houses painted pastel blend with the cotton-candy-blue sky. Sweat cakes sunscreen to your skin. You shake a cup of ice and know it will be water the next time you lift it.

When you wake after midnight, you are unused to the dark sky in a place such as this. There are not so many stars as you expected; instead, a storm off the coast pulls clouds over your head. Pink lightning flashes over the distant sea. How strange a color, you think, and when it flashes again there is a silhouette of a dragon in the stormclouds. Stranger still.

You sit on the hotel balcony in the wind-chilled darkness before dawn. Wind whistles as it blows out to sea. You wrap your arms around yourself. It is not until the barest sunlight hints at dawn that your mother wakes. You stroll to the beach together to watch the sun itself wake for the day.

A rabbit scampers through tall grass. Birds are gently roused. Slowly, softly, the sun inches over the horizon. It is not a bright sunrise - the sky has no fire this morning, your skin does not glow in its magenta light. It is slow and soft and cloudy. Rosy cheeks give way to the straight blue gaze of daylight. Your mother rubs your back when you lean your head on her shoulder. The hours awake catch up to your drowsy mind but you can sleep safely here. Your mother is warm and so is the sun. You lay your head in her lap and so does the sun. It is the warmth all mothers seem to have, even in the cold before dawn, even before the sun shines. Waves crash with steady breaths. You close your eyes and rest.