Having grown up in Hawaii (on Kauai, to be specific) I grew to take the beach for granted. It was always there, surrounding us, and it always would be. When I moved to Southern California I also took the beach for granted; I lived in the Santa Monica/Venice area so the shoreline was never more than a few minutes away.
Then I moved to Nevada, a landlocked state (Las Vegas, to again be specific.) I then learned the folly of my ways in thinking the ocean would always be there for me. I'd forsaken it for the high-desert and (Lake Mead and all the jet fuel it contains.) I swore if I ever left the desert I'd never live in a land-locked state again.
Then I moved to Washington (the greater Seattle area, moved a few times) and could once again appreciate the water and all it has to offer: moisture, wetness, and a seemingly endless supply of shoreline and expansive horizon. Then I went to what the locals refer to as "the beach": Alki. It is not, by even the most liberal definition, "the beach". Rather, it's a shoreline (not to be confused with Shoreline, an area outside Seattle) made up of a rocky surface, murky-green-to-black water, and crap for desirable entry (really, you don't want to go into the water.)
It was then that I regretted ever taking the beach for granted. I miss the soft, gritty texture of the warm sand, the sparkling blue waters clear enough to see to incredible depths, the amazing sea-life and coral reefs teeming with creatures of endless descriptions. The cool breezes, the warm sunshine, the casual togetherness the beach can bring.
Never take the beach for granted, you'll live to regret it.
