I discovered the beach on a Wednesday in cold, bleak November. Every weekday I became a coxswain, meaning I’d lie flat in the bow of some wooden boat named after some ancient alum of my Canadian boarding school, spending hours commanding four older boys through a headset and speaker. They’d all been rowing for years, and my words meant so little to them. Sometimes we’d go on the water and I’d say barely anything; they’d still go through all the same drills. The water was peaceful at times, sometimes so peaceful that I’d find my mind drifting off and following the shoreline with my eyes, while the rhythm of the oars droned on in the background. 1, 2, 3, pull, 1, 2, 3, pull, the dark lake swirling beneath us, the icy wind rushing over my face, we moved along.
That day, we’d gone farther on the water than we ever had before, past tiny wooden cottages decorating the shores of idyllic Shawnigan Lake, past the abandoned lakefront motel, past everything we knew. Pines drew a silhouette along the land that reminded me of a city skyline, so similar to home, but as they swayed in the breeze the illusion shattered. At the end of the pines my eyes fell upon a small secluded beach I’d never seen before, almost empty, save for a single fallen tree resting on its sand. It was far from the school, far from town, far from anything and everything familiar, and it caught my eye as I unconsciously searched the waterline for my escape from the boredom that plagued every day. Its simplicity and isolation seemed to draw me, the silence that I could imagine would fill its air. The monotone grunts of the rowers and splashes of the oars continued; I made a pact to find it.
The next day’s walk was tedious and lonely. My boarding house was at the edge of the woods, and I took the pathway through the empty forest that led to the town of Shawnigan. The village consisted of only four destinations: a gas station, a pharmacy, a sushi restaurant, and a coffee shop. The four businesses lived inside identical house-like storefronts, which stood proudly on each corner of the single intersection of the town, facing off in two eternal duels. The village sat next to long-deserted train tracks, creating a pathway along the water’s edge at the border of the shore. I followed them for a few kilometers until I arrived.
There was no trace of human activity. Any footprints in the sand were long washed away, and the damp log lying on the shore seemed to be sheltered from the typical name carvings other students left when they explored. I decided it was mine, the whole thing: the beach, the log, the long lonely walk. My fingertips grazed the pebbly strand until I came upon a sharp rock almost too large for my hand; its edge was the perfect blade to carve the tangled initials, CM. The beach became my own.
Two weeks later, I walked there again, this time with a companion. He was a blond rugby player two years my senior, with sparkling blue eyes that reminded me of paradise in my state of absolute infatuation. We stood on the respective metal tracks, walking carefully like gymnasts on balance beams, trying hard to keep our outstretched fingers touching at the center of the world between us. He was tall and lanky, and I laughed as he fell over into the dirt, unbalanced in his height, laughing so much that I fell too, right next to him. He stared into my eyes, leaning in, but in an instant, I remembered our destination. I decided in an instant it would be ours, our hideaway for us as a pair, the place where we would share our first kiss and where we could kiss many more times again. Saying none of this out loud, I stood and pulled him up with me, the beginning of an adventure.
He was not nearly as amazed at the forsaken beach as I was. We lowered our bodies onto the thick trunk of the fallen tree and sat in silence for a moment. He reached out, his cold fingers pulled my face to his, and he squished his thin moist lips against mine. As he kissed me I realized I didn’t know what to do, how to move, where my mouth should go. My mind ran through everything my roommates had told me about making out, when to use tongue, how you should run your fingers through his hair if it’s long enough, close your eyes, be in the moment.
We rolled off the log into the rocky floor, where he lay on top of me, and I felt crushed by his body. A stone jutting out from the ground poked my spine but I ignored the bruise I could feel it creating, terrified to ruin what I was sure was the beginning of a grand romance with this beautiful blond boy. I didn’t like him kissing me, but I liked him. I wanted him to like me so I let him. Before he could do any more, the trees around us rustled in the wind. Whispering, they carried a warning of the coming rain. He stopped kissing me, stared at me, then remarked on how young I was. Just fifteen. He asked me where my lips had been before him; I lied, told him false names and numbers. We departed soon after.
The day at the beach left earthy splotches on the back of my favorite gray sweater, but I forgave the boy when he apologized for them the next night. He said it was a stupid mistake. That it shouldn’t have happened, he shouldn’t have kissed me. That I was just too young. He regretted not thinking of me, my feelings, my youth. I don’t know if he was sorry only for the stains, but we never spoke again after that. I scrubbed the smudges from my sweater, washing over and over again until my hands shriveled from the soapy water, until they finally faded. And the small round bruise on my back, which had grown into a perfect purple oval, continued to ache for far too long.