Cape Cod, 1982

We had one good day of sun to collect shells on the beach. We put them in our plastic buckets. My sister and I each had our own, with our names written in glitter pen, all capital letters. That night, as we lay in our beautifully unfamiliar vacation beds, exhausted and sundrenched, the storm rolled in.

In the morning the power was out. Mom was worried. Dad wondered where he could make a phone call. We drove into town with Dad, searching for a pay phone. We stopped at the club house on the ocean. It had a big wraparound porch. My sister and I stood on the porch, way out by the water. Only Dad would let us do that. The wind was so strong that we could lean over, like we meant to fall, and be held up by the constant gust. Lightning flashed over the ocean. The air was charged with electricity. Every clap of thunder held a gorgeous thrill. It was like a different planet.

The pay phone was out of order. We drove back. The lights were back on, but it was no beach day. Mom had the paper with the movie times. ET sounded good.