Bittersalty Memory

I am 17 years old, sleep deprived, hungry, and in love.

I open the squeaky door of my cheap motel room and take in the salty breeze. My stomach shrinks into a tight ball. Maybe it is excitement, or maybe it is the result of my midnight snack, but the latter is unlikely. After all, bread slices sprinkled with pure sugar are a delicacy according to camp standards. Our bodies have adjusted to it.

As I walk past the swimming pool, I see my friends’ devoid of color faces appearing from the balconies above me. They grab their wet swimsuits from the clothesline, take a sip of a suspicious green liquid (I am telling you, stomachs built from lead), and come down the stairs with a duck-like gait. We gather at the basketball court, waiting for the rest like huddling penguins.

The first time we decided to watch the sunrise was six years ago. Most of us had not even seen a real sunrise at that point. Since then, on every second morning of summer camp, the same people go to the same beach to yawn uncontrollably and enjoy a morning swim. The importance of this ritual grew each year. And so did we.

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My friends and I, after being told to “look scary” by our supervisor. Summer camp, 2016. Personal archive.

The boys’ voices got deeper, the girls learned how to use tampons, the boys learned there are such things as tampons. We experienced the whole teenage package — fights with parents, first crushes, disappointments and heartbreaks, deadly alcohol combinations, and lots of dreaming. We grew up together; we belonged to each other. The ritual became a testimony of that.

“Ten minutes till sunrise, run!” someone yells.

We race down the empty street to the beach. A sudden wave of energy possesses our small group. I put all my trust into my flip-flops to keep me from tripping. When we get to the beach, the tip of the sun is already showing. Clothes off. Splash.

I dive into the warm morning water; my heartbeat slows down. After a long year of waiting, I am finally rewarded. My body feels light. I swim further in, only hearing the muffled laughter of my friends above the surface. For a second, my mind is completely empty, and I feel really, really good. The shortness of breath takes me out of my peace and above water.

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I see my person, yes, my person, swimming towards me. He has always been a part of the group, and yet, to my heart, he is someone new and exciting. Three hours earlier, before coming to the beach, we were sitting next to each other on my rickety bed, talking with our backs to the wall. I don’t remember the conversation, just that I felt vulnerable and safe at the same time. As he was getting closer to me, I remember thinking, Is it normal to be this happy?

In a month, he would leave for university. I would get all sad and doubtful, and be suspicious of our future together. Not now, though.

This morning, in the water, I smile so much that my face hurts. I am content with everything I have, but still radiate with enthusiasm for everything that is yet to come. I am surrounded by my childhood friends, whom I love and care about, but I focus on one in particular. My heart is full of little wonderings and questions, but does not need immediate answers. My dreams are as big and wild as five-meter waves amidst a storm, but I? I am a skillful surfer enjoying the ride.

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My friends and I enjoying the last moments at the beach on our first summer camp in 2016. Personal archive.

I do not know about sound, but time definitely moves faster in water. Before realizing it, we are sitting at the beach, wrapped in towels like burritos. We listen to the waves hitting the sand in perfect symphony with our growling stomachs. Someone suggests we go for banitsa, the last part of the ritual. Two by two, people wipe off the wet sand from their legs and head towards the banicharnitsa.

Suddenly, I get sad. If not slightly panicked. Are we going already? I close my eyes and try to memorize the smell of seaweed and the sound of seagulls. I want to store them somewhere safe in my mental hardware so I can re-live the moment. I focus intensely on one rock. It might be an important detail I would want to go back to.

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The last sunrise we witnessed together as a group in 2023. Personal archive.

It has been three years since we last welcomed the sunrise.

I rarely talk to the people I used to belong to. There is no other way. We have our separate “adult” lives now. Even if we did attempt to repeat the ritual, it would not feel the same way.

I am still dating the same beautiful person. I know him better, and I love him more. If I tell him, “Let’s go to Byala and swim at sunrise,” he will start the car immediately, but it would not feel the same way.

I keep dreaming, albeit more modestly, I have people to depend on, even if they do not know who my first kiss was, and my dentist is thankful that I stopped eating bread with sugar three times a day.

By now, I have replayed that morning so many times in my head that it has become nothing more than a memory of some magical feeling.

Will I ever feel the same way?