Stingray Point- The Final Years

These top photos are from later years at Stingray Point.

That's my oldest child in the photos.

Things have changed at Stingray.

Ownership changed hands and the beach is no longer available for public use.

You have to buy a lot in the wooded area behind the beach to gain access to a portion of the beach.

The other portion is now privately owned by someone who at one time complained about the trash.

I find this amusing because nowadays, 

the beach looks a little crappy what with the weeds and the falling down fence

and the million and 1 no trespassing signs everywhere.

These photos don't show most of that because who wants pictures of a million and 1 

no trespassing signs?

(Ok so I might have a few photos of myself and my cousin posing next to no trespassing signs but that's not important).

It's sad really.

So many years and

so many memories.

(I'd like to take a moment to mention a law that states no one can own a beach meaning if you enter a beach from the water via boat, you can be there up to the high tide line and not be trespassing.  The Kennedys tried to fight this law and lost. Just throwing that out there for ya)

The Couch

For my entire life, this was the couch in our place in Deltaville.

I spent a lot of nights sleeping on that couch as did my cousin.

It always reminded me of the curtains Scarlett O'Hara made her dress out of.

Okay, so it reminds me more of the Carol Burnett version of the Scarlett O'Hara dress made out of curtains, though now I see it actually is the wallpaper it reminds me of.

Either way, it's ugly.

When the tornado hit, there was some hope that the couch had been sucked up and was halfway to Delaware,

but no such luck.

It was definitely on its way out,

and this past weekend was the time.

Last lounge before the dump

Despite the fact that the couch is indeed ugly,

it has been part of my life for, well, my whole life.

And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly sad about it going

or that I didn't take a piece of fabric to remember it by.

 Or that I didn't video tape it being tossed into the dumpster and crushed.
The woman operating the dump laughed and laughed.
Asked if she should play Taps.

A Bike?

The only modes of transportation we had as children were walking or riding a bike. It was a good vacation if your dad managed to find room to take your bike with you.  It meant you would be racing around The Point on two wheels rather than hoofing it.  It meant you could make it into town in a few minutes instead of 30+ which meant trips to the Stop & Shop for fireworks.

Fast forward to July of 2012.  Big E and I are preparing for a weekend camping trip, and he's excited about a surprise he has for me.  I'm excited too. I love surprises. So I walk around to the back of his truck, and he shows me the bike he's purchased for me.  And my first thought is "A Bike?" Not because I have anything at all against bikes.  I spent much of my youth on a bike flying down Stafford Drive with no hands, cruising through town and doing bunny hops over in the Votech parking lot (all of which were done without a helmet). But the operative word here is youth. I'm not a kid anymore. I'm an adult and a parent who is well versed in every possible worst case scenario that could befall someone in any given situation.  And I haven't been on a bike in at least 20 years. Did I really want to be the one testing to see if bike riding was really "just like riding a bike"?

While I wasn't able to test any theories about bike riding on that particular trip (we hiked 10+ miles, my legs were shot), we did bring the bikes along on the second camping trip.  And this time, I wasn't given an opportunity to not ride.  Big E arranged for our friends to drive the kids over to the lake while we rode our bikes. Here I was, not sure I was in good enough physical condition to ride a bike, not sure I had the balance to ride a bike and not having any recent experience with riding a bike now throwing my leg over a bike and hitting the trail.

Riding a bike is, in fact, "just like riding a bike". Your muscles and brain remember what to do and eventually you stop riding your brakes like a 98 year old driver in a Buick and you let yourself fly down the hills.  I loved it.

So I took my bike to Deltaville for the week on the off chance I'd be able to ride it.  One afternoon I snuck out and rode around The Point.  I rode down the lane towards town and on the way back to the house, I rode down the sandy lane that my cousins and I referred to as "The Shortcut".  I was 10 again. I was a centaur on wheels.

I love, love, love this guy.

He knew what I wanted when I didn't even know I wanted it. And in giving me a bike, he gave me the ability to relive happy moments of my childhood. Rest assured, that bike is going with me on each of my treks to Deltaville.  Photography from bike seat is probably easier than photography from moving car.

Oh the adventures I'm going to relive!

Capture the Flag

Where would childhood be without games?  One of the favorites of my cousins and myself was Capture the Flag.  For those unfamiliar with Capture the Flag, the rules are simple.  You have two teams.  Each team has a flag- typically made from some sort of rag (or your Grandmother's brand new pantyhose) tied to a stick.  Each team has a "territory with a defined line of separation/neutral zone.  Each territory has an area designated as a "jail" (could be a tree or a rock) and a place where their "flag" is located.  The object of the game is to steal the other team's flag and bring it across the neutral zone into your territory.  If you are caught by the opposing team while trying to steal the flag you are placed in "jail" until your teammate(s) help you escape by tagging you.

In our little piece of Deltaville, we had ideal Capture the Flag conditions.  Sometimes we chose to use the whole of Jackson Acres and split The Point in half.  Sometimes we only used the properties owned by my grandparents and my Great-Uncle Pepop.  Either way it was always a good time.  My cousins and I would strategize over the best location for the flag.  Then there was strategy for stealing our opponents' flag.  That strategy usually ran along the lines of "run over there, find the flag and don't get caught".  None of us were George S. Patton.

Despite our lack of brilliant war plans, we played all afternoon until the sun went down and we were finally called in for supper.  We were dirty and disheveled and full of dirt.  But we were happy.  Dinner usually lent itself to rehashing the day's battles and jail breaks. 

And in remembering those games: the laughing so hard you're nearly crying, the squeals as we inched away from an outstretched hand, the taunting when we escaped imminent capture, the breathlessness when we managed to cross back into our territory.... I wonder why adults don't take the time to play capture the flag.