Mother is at the Beach: A Travelogue.

Olive Avenue

Per the unfortunate series of decisions between two people that led to my birth, I am riddled with a ninety percent chance of each day of my life being bad, particularly since I moved back home in October. And by observation, today, this ill luck has been successful. My day is ruined, and so I must visit the beach.

I contemplate riding my little sister’s bicycle all the way, after all, it is just a twenty-something-minute ride. But the fear of driving in the same lane with vehicles and them crashing into me overtakes my nervous system, so I decide to take the bus with my bike. I do not want to go alone, which prompts me to ask my brother to come with me, but he refuses — something about him being tired. In this moment, I dislike him. Didn’t he witness what just transpired between his mother and me?

Ultimately, I decide not to take my bicycle on the bus. It would have been nice to have someone accompany me, but it is completely okay. I am a big girl, and this big girl will embark on this journey alone.

After a not-so-brief look in the mirror, seeing how ravishing I look, I change from my purple wedge heels into sneakers with a pair of socks. Why? You might wonder. Well, I’m already wearing a black short flair skirt (with tights underneath, of course, not that I even need to tell you that), but men are men, and today I do not want to have any encounter with such creatures. I do not want to draw any attention.

As I walk down the street to Olive Avenue, I see a small forested area on the right side of the path, and wonder if the coyote my brother and I had seen stroll by some weeks ago was heading there that night. It is a small bush wedged between two houses that seems to stretch out much further than it looks. I do not want to be eaten or bitten, so I move further away from the sidewalk. I remember the TikTok videos of families encountering bears on their front porches and wonder if the occupants of these houses have the same experience. In the near distance, I can see my bus stop.

Ten minutes have gone by, and the bus has not arrived. “Typical Oshawa”, I say. I sight the third man staring at me from his vehicle as he drives by. Maybe if I pace back and forth, it’ll be faster, and the rabbit will turn the clock just for me. I think to myself.

The bus arrives some minutes after. I can’t help but notice the driver is quite handsome, and polite too. I get off my first bus after about a thirty-five minute ride. Again, the next bus is late. I definitely made a mistake moving to Oshawa. Another guy slows down to look at me from his car, but I might be overthinking it because he is turning into the street by the bus stop, so I brush it off.

The bus finally arrives, and it is a Black driver this time, so I give him that smile Black people give to each other in acknowledgement. As if to say, It is nice to see you, my fellow Black human.

“This bus goes to Lakeview Park beach,” he says.

I am a bit taken aback, but I crack a smile and say, “That’s good, thank you. I am going to the beach.” Do I look like a newbie? I ask myself. It might be the outfit. People here tend to dress down, but that is always the case with me wherever I go.

Once I alight from the bus at the bus stop, I immediately try to connect to the free Wi-fi I was promised as per my Google search this morning. There is no open network to my dismay, but I should be able to find one as I move around. There is a museum here, the Oshawa Museum, and a museum should have free Wi-fi. There are many more people here than I thought. So many couples, people smoking under the shade, which I think is complete madness considering the heatwave. Some mothers look stressed as their kids play on the splash pad in the playground. My siblings would have loved it here.

I still haven’t found the free Wi-Fi, but I continue to walk around to get a look at the entire place when suddenly, I see the pretty blue colour calling out to me beyond the trees right in front of me.

I take a moment to look around the park some more, but I need to get close to the water. My body is about to throw a fit. I feel a manic hunger deep inside of me, and so I must find the beach —with lots of sand and the water horizon spread out like a gouache painting.

I walk towards the left through the playground in the park, past the kids playing and the people sitting on the benches that line the swirl of the path. After about two minutes, I can already see the shore. As I’m walking, I spot a small building to my left with an Oshawa Museum sign on it. Finally! I mutter under my breath. I start trying to connect as I move closer to the building, but the Wi-fi name has a lock icon next to it. What stage of greed is this? I think maybe if I go inside, I’ll get the free guest network; you know the one that has the GUEST suffix after the Wi-fi name. Besides, it’ll be nice to take a look inside, but my hope is immediately obliterated when I see the ‘Hours of Operation’ sign glued to the front of the entrance door. Isn’t four o’clock too early? Then again, it is a museum, so I cannot be too mad. I’m a little annoyed that I can’t connect to the Wi-fi, but that is okay. I am at the beach.

As I continue to walk towards the water, I feel my hips swaying to the side, occupying the space as I walk. I think to reduce my movement and be cautious, as I already feel eyes on me. It must be my skirt, I think. But I am at the beach, and there are people in bikinis, and shirtless men happily gallivanting everywhere, so I will not shrink myself because of these creatures. Let me walk, goddamn it!

The Beach

I finally get to the beach, and it is a lovely sight. There are people everywhere, sprawled out on blankets. Some are packing their belongings from their cars in the parking lot on the left. Some older people are sitting on the rocks along the walkway, watching the younglings out in the sand as if watching their younger selves at play. My feet itch to touch the sand too. I begin to mentally make plans for when I will return. I will bring slippers, the mauve and cream blanket I wanted to bring with me today, a bikini, some snacks…I will get back to those plans. For now, I am at the beach.

There are some people playing in the water just as I saw online, just as I remember it should be, just like it is in the movies. A lot of occupied spots, umbrellas lodged in the sand, and someone even has a very huge canopy set up. There are families around and young women with their friends and partners. Rhonor might have loved it here, I wish she had come. Breanna lives too far away. Maybe I’ll ask James to come with me sometime. Jola would love it here, too, I think to myself.

The water whispers something to me as I move closer. My eyes start darting around to find a way to the water —the quickest way. I told you I need to touch it. My legs, my hands, my body, I need to feel it. I frantically look around. All the benches are occupied, the rocks are heavy with the bottoms of humans sitting on them. There is no space. I think of taking a seat on a rock by the sidewalk. You should be composed, I tell myself. I’ll deprive myself of all the enjoyment and come back well prepared next time. But I refuse almost instantly, I want to get close to the water. I need to see her.

I continue down the sidewalk and as I spot the lighthouse to my far right, some men by the end of the path look at me, exchanging knowing glances amongst themselves. I feel my heart skip a beat, so I step onto the sand instead, moving away from the sidewalk. I take a good look at my phone —my bus route in Google Maps, Spotify, the Calculator. I do not want to make eye contact. I can already hear them say, “Hi, hello” I do not hear. I do not want to hear. I am at the beach.

I continue down the shore looking at the lighthouse I read about online, and my heart beats with joy. It is indeed nice to see it in person. I notice a gate by the lighthouse path, which makes me wonder if it is open. I want to be as close to the water as I was at Rouge Hill.

As I look around for a space to sit, I notice a bench close to the gate of the lighthouse, right near the water. Someone is sitting on it; Lisa, she will later call herself. She is smoking a cigarette and looking out at the beauty in front of her.

I walk to the bench, contemplating whether to sit on the empty side. She is a white woman, and I do not know if she is racist. Yes, that is the first thing that comes to mind when I meet non-Black people. Trauma does that to you.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask.

To which she responds with a level of sweetness that I do not expect. “Sure!” she says.

I notice her sleeveless blue and white dress. I say dress, but I couldn’t quite make out if it is actually a dress or overalls. She has sandy blonde hair that, if my knowledge of hair serves me correctly, looks sweaty, but we’re at the beach after all. I can’t help but notice her pretty blue eyes. I wonder why she keeps coughing, though; it might be the cigarette she’s smoking, but I choose to ignore it. I am at the beach.

Lisa

I take a second to look out and get a good grasp of my view. There are rocks arranged in front of me, but I do not mind. I can see my mother clearly.

I thought of sitting on the rock as I had done at Rouge Hill, but the image of the snake in the picture someone had posted in a Google review just three weeks ago changes my mind. So, I sit with Lisa.

Just as I am hoping she won’t speak, she does. This is why hope is dead, but luckily for me, we actually have a good conversation. She tells me she’s from Victoria, BC, she is here for her child and grandchild, but is more than ready to go back. She tells me a little about her seemingly free life in Victoria. Lisa seems like she has really lived life, and I feel a spark of jealousy as she speaks. She talks to me about sailing, surfing, swimming, and doing yoga on a paddleboard in the water. I imagine myself doing that for a second, and it feels amazing. I feel the emotions of that version of me in my vision.

Lisa recommends visiting another lake nearby, Simcoe? Is what I think she says. I do not properly catch the name, but I also do not want to ask her to repeat herself. I’ll check online to find it, I think to myself. She also tells me about Casa Loma, saying she thinks I would like it there, and mentions two castles she loves back in Victoria. Lisa also suggests I move to BC. “There are a lot of young people like you, enjoying university life who also do water activities. They are pretty close knit and live freely. It seems like your vibe.” She thinks I would like it there, or that I should at least visit.

Although the sound of it is beautiful, my vision only shows me a sea of white people. The very reason I was reluctant to consider it when I was looking for places to move to, back when I desperately did not want to move to Ontario to live with family. I do not think I would mix well with that many white people. Racism, Lisa, I think to myself. But Lisa doesn’t know how racism plays a huge factor in determining places to live.

Lisa then warns me to stay away from the Caribbean men in Oshawa before telling me about her ex. I give her a knowing look before saying, “I know!”We get to talking right away as women would typically do, bonding over their shared trauma caused by men and their silly antics. I mention that Nigerian men are the same; they are the same everywhere.

“Men!” we both exclaim.

Me, who at the tender age of twenty-five has experienced a good fraction of the male populace and their madness, and Lisa, who at the age of fifty- eight, is divorced, a grandmother and has suffered the brunt of men. Different backgrounds, different experiences, same conclusion: men!

She tells me about her ex, a multimillionaire dickhead with a gigantic ego. “You know what he told me, and I can’t even believe he said it. He said he fell in love with me with my makeup on. Can you believe that?”

I can, Lisa. With all of my heart, I can. “That is very crazy,” I say, because it is indeed crazy. Crazy is for the men.

She replies that it is incredibly shallow. “Don’t you think?” she asks.

I think it is truly shallow, but Lisa, I also mean crazy. In that moment, I wish I had a better description of what I wanted to say, but again, crazy is for the men.

Lisa tells me other things. She plans to write a book she’s been putting off for a long time now. She tells me she has some kind of arthritis and she uses some Japanese patches for it. “Less is more,” she says, quoting her mother who used to work in a hospital. I want to ask Lisa about my type of pain, whether it is arthritis, but to do that, I would have to do a deep dive about my work history. And though at the time, it seems like a good idea to rant my heart out to this stranger, I choose to keep it to myself.

Lisa tells me to pick a man with a good sense of humour and a God-fearing man. She almost loses me there. A good sense of humour is important; I agree with that, but the sentiment about being a God-fearing person is where my eye twitches. But it is to be expected, let me enjoy this moment.

I want to tell Lisa that I am bisexual. I also want to tell her about my ex in exchange for the stories she shared about hers, but my ex is a woman, and I do not know if Lisa would accept my sexuality. She seems cool and smokes a cigarette, so I don’t think she’s homophobic (This is a very questionable formula, I know, but bear with me). Still, with my workings, I cannot tell with white people. They smoke, do drugs, curse a lot, and yet, go to church. The duality of man, if you ask me.

The fear of homophobia is trifling. Even when you think you’re free, you are still caged. I have reached this point in my life and fought many battles, yet I cannot tell Lisa that I also like women. But I like Lisa. She seems fun and grounded.

Lisa asks if the beaches in Manitoba are nice. I tell her they aren’t, and as I try to picture the moments of me at a beach in Winnipeg, I can only see Google Maps photos. This triggers my nervous system and I silently panic while Lisa speaks. Why can I not remember my time at the beach in Manitoba? I try to search the folds of my brain. Surely I’ve been to one. Grand Beach! But it is false. The memories I have of it are actually those of my mother’s. My mother is me in these memories that I am recalling. I also picture a friend from church who once invited me to the beach for a church day out, which I obviously did not attend. I am alarmed. Does this mean that I have not been to any beach in Manitoba? Have I lied to people? I am in trouble, I think to myself.

“I have only been to one,” I tell Lisa

She exclaims, “Just one?!”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I can’t remember the name.”

I do not want to go into details right now, Lisa. I am sorry for lying to you. I wish I could show you the madness unfolding in my mind as we speak. I tell Lisa the reason is that I didn’t have the time and that the beaches I am used to in Nigeria are different. Another lie.

I can not tell Lisa how my parents never took us out. How the only time they ever took us to the beach was when I was one year old, and how they mention that day so often that I have built an altar for the photo taken on that day at the back of my mind. I can not tell her how when we lived in Winnipeg, only my mother went out, while we were always kept inside. I only went to beaches on school excursions in Nigeria. Twice. I missed one because I had arrived late to school, and the buses had already left, leaving the school empty. I remember being stuck in school with three other kids, and how left out I felt when the buses returned, and everyone talked about how their day went.

I can not tell her how I had planned to sit with my crush on the bus during the second beach trip in SS3, and how he didn’t sit with me —or maybe I just do not remember clearly. Maybe he did. I do not trust my memory now.

Of course, I can’t tell Lisa how lonely I was in Winnipeg, and how I didn’t have anyone to go out with even when I lived on my own because I always had to work. Or how I remember the palm trees at the beaches in Nigeria, and how jealous I feel now when I see my friends back there posting photos at the beach.

I can not tell Lisa all this, so I just blame it on work.

Lisa continues to tell me about the other shores. She asks if I come here often or if I bring family. I can not tell her that I wanted to bring my little siblings, but that I have been isolated by my mother, and that isolation is the main reason I am standing at this beach today. So I just tell her, “No, I like being alone.”

Another lady interrupts our conversation, which I am slightly thankful for, even though I do not like that our conversation was cut short, as I am just getting comfortable with Lisa. But the interruption allows me to daze out into the lake again by myself, so I do not mind at all. Lisa comments on the old lady’s tan, which I am glad she does. I too was wondering why she was that red, Lisa. My mind trails off for a bit, but I hear Lisa ask her, “Are you burning?” before mentioning that she too once suffered a third-degree burn.

As my mind wanders off across the lake, Lisa properly introduces herself, and I give her my name. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” she says, and for some reason, I miss her even before she steps away. She wishes me luck and a good life, and I wish her the same.

I miss Lisa already.

The old lady sits by the bench for a bit and I wonder if I should say hi, but she looks racist. I find that thought funny —the idea that someone can look racist. The poor old woman might not be, but no, she isn’t Lisa, so I keep to myself. When I turn around again, she is gone. I am completely alone now. No more presence or souls filling the space around me to make it warm.

Now I am properly alone with my thoughts.

The Water

My mother. She looks dashing as always, showing me different emotions as if letting me know she has the range. To the left, beside the lighthouse path, she is calm. To the right, directly in front of me, she is angry at the rocks, smashing violently into them. Or perhaps she is just trying to speak to me, wanting to say hello. After a few splashes, she reaches me, and plants a kiss on my lips. Out where the horizon meets the sky, she looks entirely serene.

I take off my shoes to feel the sand with my feet. Let me also have a little joy, I think. It feels wonderful. There is sand in my sneakers, so I take them off and hit them against the bench to dust the sand off. I haven’t done this in years.

There are people in the water. I spot a few women and suddenly remember Lisa saying I could get a yeast infection from the lake. I wonder if those ladies know.

Two guys on the surfboards entertain me throughout my stay on the bench. One stands tall on his board while the other paddles with his hands as he lies flat. The second seems funny. I do not know whether he keeps crashing into the water intentionally or not, but it is an entertaining sight. I think he catches me looking for a split second. I would have loved to take a picture, but I don’t want to be rude.

He falls into the water again, and I imagine how nice it would be if this were a movie. If my character were the extra busty, big smile, dark-skinned Black girl with a slender frame, a very outgoing personality, and a flawless white accent. How she would march to where he was to ask if he could teach her, and they would have had a wonderful time. But I am not her, so I can only enjoy the waves on my skin through my eyes.

Almost two hours have now gone by. I should listen to music; hmmm, maybe some Afrobeat for the summer, I mutter under my breath. A guy on a scooter soon approaches me.

“I saw you sitting and wanted to ask for your number,” he says.

A very poor tactic. He looks a bit younger too, and I think about how badly he needs to up his game. He still has time to learn anyway. I recognize him, and realize he has been hanging around the lighthouse path with another guy on a bike. Both of them have been staring my way while I was speaking with Lisa, but I had assumed they were just having a chat. Yet, here he is.

“No, sorry,” I say before turning my head back to the water. I do not have time for you, young man. Can’t you see I am at the beach?

I look at the phone, and the time has slipped away. The rabbit might be doing too much now, I think to myself. I should head to the lighthouse before going home.

Mister Red Shorts

As I prepare to put my socks and shoes back on, I see the silhouette of a man wearing red shorts walking toward me. For a second, I think it is one of the men who sat on the rock at the end of the pathway earlier, so I quickly pull on my socks. But it is someone else. Or actually, maybe it is one of them. I do not know because I did not look at their faces. But his softness and the manner with which he approaches me do not match what I envisioned for those men.

I listen.

“Hi, miss,” he says.

From his accent, I gather that he is a candidate of the Caribbean men that Lisa spoke about. I find it funny, but answer with a quiet hello, stopping for a second to look at the water again to give him space to speak.

“What do you see?” he asks.

Definitely not what I expected. He thinks he has game, I think to myself. I have encountered many of his type before.

I know he is talking about the view on a deeper level. However, I do not want to entertain him, and I also do not want to go deep with a male stranger, but I actually like the question. How deep can I really go in a situation like this? I could easily leave, but I want to answer, so I do it quickly.

“It’s more of what I hear,” I say.

“Huh?” comes after, and I repeat myself, wondering why he can’t hear me. He seems really pleased with the answer and presses further.

“Well then, what do you hear?”

“The water,” I say. “The water, the wind…”

“What about the birds?” he asks.

“The birds too,” I answer. “The people talking, the kids laughing…”

“But I can see the blues,” I add.

“Huh?” He interrupts again.

“The blues. The contrast,” I say. I am getting a little irritated now. Is it my accent? I wonder. “The deep colour of the water against the light tone of the sky.”

“The contrast of the greens. The trees,” he says in response.

I like the answer, and I smile. “Yes.”

He asks if I saw the boat that passed by a few minutes ago. I tell him yes, and that I even took a picture of it.

While we are talking, I am still trying to figure out his aim. Is this him trying to be intellectual? Deep? A lot of guys do this. I notice his teeth are a little yellow, but he has a good looking face to him. Then, he mentions that he had been watching me and he wondered what I was looking at. He took some pictures before coming to speak with me because he imagined my response would match the pictures he took. He hands me his phone to take a look.

I scroll through the photos, taking notes of how he didn’t pay attention to the framing and proportions but they are nice pictures overall. There is one of the boat we talked about, some of the water, and then me. There are about four pictures of me sitting on the bench, looking out, and I like them. I wonder what it is like to take a candid picture of me. I have always wanted my friends to that, as I do for them, but being the photographer of the group comes with some sacrifices. This is all I wanted, I thought.

“This is my favourite,” he says, swiping to the last one. “ I was watching you, wondering what you were thinking of. You seemed to be lost in thoughts and don’t mind me saying this, but maybe lonely? I can send them to you.”

Lonely? I think. I looked lonely? Ah, fuck.

Whether this guy is messing around with me to seem deep or is actually serious, I do not know. But someone using lonely to describe me gets me thinking for a bit. This is before my brain catches what he said after. How? With my number? His phone is an android, so Airdrop isn’t an option. That’s probably the game, I mutter to myself.

I decline the offer, even though I want the photos. “Thank you,” I say, “but you don’t have to worry about it.”

He proceeds to delete them right in front of me. “It’s okay,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ll delete them right now. I just thought you’d want to have them.”

I wonder if it is rude of me to decline, and how nice it would be to have these pictures. Is it worth risking whatever line he would say after? Can I get your number? No, I decide.

As I buckle up and prepare to head to the lighthouse, he proposes taking a walk with me. But I ask to go alone, please, and he accepts. We exchange goodbyes, and I stand up.

My mother is waiting.

The Lighthouse

As I walk along on the lighthouse path, I notice the silkiness of the water. Grandmother Lake, she looks exquisite.

I move closer to the rails and stare at her for a while before taking a picture. I continue down the path, stopping at intervals to breathe and take it all in. There is something about the water today. She isn’t calling me to come in. Not like she has before, but this time, my curiosity and hunger to feel it cannot be mistaken for her calling me to embrace her depth. This time, she is smiling at me and telling me I will be okay. She is taking all my worries and dumping them into herself. This time, she is mother.

For a second, I wonder if he is still watching me. Mister Red Shorts. There are families, lovers, a group of friends on the lighthouse path. I am the only one alone here, but it doesn’t matter. I am at the beach.

The lighthouse looks stunning in its coat of white and green.

To the right of the rail, the sun blasts the water, making the surface look like a sheet of crystals. I love it. My mother is bedazzled!

At this point, I get a bit lost in my thoughts. All I can think is water. The sounds of mother crashing everything in her way. It is not scary like the way mother at the other home does. This is different. This mother simply wants her presence known. She is gentle. Then I remember my bus home. Since there is no Wi-Fi, I have no way to check the bus route, so I start heading back towards the bus stop. I have to leave.

At the entry gate of the lighthouse path, there is a blue and red beach ball tightly lodged in the rocks with the water beating the hell out of it. Mother Lake must be very annoyed by it, because the sight looks incredibly funny.

As I’m walking back, I think about coming out here again, slowly putting future plans into motion. Some people were already packing up to leave, others were just arriving. It is lively out here. The concept of time is an interesting thing.

I wonder if Mister Red Shorts is somewhere watching me again, but for now I need to exit the beach. I do not know where to take the bus, so I have another task ahead of me.

I need to find my way back to the wooden structure that pretends to be my home and houses a mother who does not want me. It is okay, though. Home is where my mother is, and my mother is at the beach. I have met her today, so I will be coming back to see her again. As for my father, I am yet to find where he is hiding.

But again, that is okay. Today, I came to see my mother at the beach.

I have searched the the follicles of my hair, the corner of my bedframe, the crevices of the brick walls, and the particles in the air that border her home for the archetype of my mother’s love. But all she offers me is a minuscule envelope with a huge envelope tightly folded inside, a return address attached behind it.