The ocean called my name from miles away—and my flip-flops answered first.
I live so far from the water that “beach day” usually means I’m standing in front of the frozen seafood section at the grocery store, nodding respectfully at the shrimp like, Ah yes… my people. But today was different. Today I was driving to visit my parents, who live right by the beach—close enough that they probably pay rent to the seagulls.
The highway had that long, sleepy rhythm, and I had my bossa nova playlist on. Soft guitar, gentle sway, the kind of music that makes you feel like you should be sipping something fancy even if you’re actually just holding a gas-station coffee with a lid that doesn’t trust you.
I was about twenty minutes out when I felt it: that tug in your chest when you’re nearing a place you haven’t seen in a long time. Like your memory stands up and goes, Oh! We’re doing this? We’re doing this!
And then it happened.
The scent hit first—salt and wind and something ancient. Then a flash of blue between the dunes. The ocean. I hadn’t seen it in forever, and it was sitting there like it hadn’t aged a day, just being dramatic and gorgeous.
I signaled, pulled over to the side of the road, and parked. I told myself it would be a quick look. A responsible look. A “hello, ocean, I acknowledge your existence” look.
That was my first lie of the day.
I stepped out, and my flip-flops slapped the pavement with that familiar flap-flap sound, like they were excited too.
These flip-flops had history.
They were a gift from my ex-boyfriend, Kevin—who had, let’s call it, an enthusiastic appreciation for feet. Not in a creepy way. More in a… “your toes deserve a standing ovation” way. He once told me my feet were “the underrated heroes of my whole body.”
I said, “That’s sweet.”
He said, “I’m serious. Your arches? Award-winning.”
I should’ve known then we were doomed, because anyone who compliments your arches with that much sincerity is either a poet or a walking subplot.
The flip-flops themselves were actually cute—simple, comfy, and the exact color that made my freshly painted baby-pink toenails look like they were posing for a tiny magazine cover. Kevin had picked them out like he was selecting fine jewelry.
We weren’t together anymore—too many factors, too many different directions, too much life happening at once. There was no big villain. Just two people slowly turning into different versions of themselves.
Still… I couldn’t deny it: the flip-flops were a solid gift.
I followed the sandy path toward the water, bossa nova still playing softly from my car, drifting on the breeze. The closer I got, the more the world shifted. The air felt bigger. The sky looked wider, like it had been holding its breath until I arrived.
Then the ground changed.
The sand thinned out and turned into rough, rocky earth. I slowed automatically, because my flip-flops—despite their emotional backstory—were not designed for “adventure.” They were designed for “cute stroll” and “mild errands,” maybe the occasional “poolside moment of confidence.”
I took another step and stopped.
Right ahead of me: a cliff.
Not a “cute little ledge” cliff. Not a “take a picture for Instagram” cliff. A real cliff—sharp drop, rocky face, waves crashing below like they were practicing for a drum solo.
I blinked at it.
“What is that?” I said out loud, like the cliff had personally offended me by existing.
Then, because my brain loves dramatic timing, I heard myself add, “Okay. You gotta be careful around here…”
Which was funny, because I was completely alone. I was warning myself like I was the responsible friend in a group chat.
I walked closer—slowly—until I could see the edge clearly. The wind nudged my hair and tried to steal my thoughts. The ocean below was loud, alive, and oddly convincing, like it was saying, Come on. Look at me. You missed me, didn’t you?
I did miss it.
I stood there, letting the sound wash through me, letting the salty air reset something inside my chest. For a moment, I forgot about everything: the drive, the errands, the tennis racket in my trunk that I always promised myself I’d use more often.
Tennis is my therapy. Not because I’m good at it—because I’m not. But because there’s something satisfying about smacking a ball and pretending it’s your stress, your ex, or your unanswered emails.
Plus, tennis keeps my footwork sharp.
And right then, I was grateful for that, because the cliff edge was not playing around.
A small rock shifted under my flip-flop. My heel slid half an inch.
My heart tried to evacuate my body.
I froze, arms out a little like I was auditioning to be a human tightrope walker.
“See!” I told myself in a louder voice, as if I were scolding a reckless child. “A cliff. If you fall, it will be bad.”
Understatement of the century, Roxanne.
I shuffled back carefully until my feet were on solid ground again. The wind whipped past me, and I swear the ocean laughed—just a little—like Nice try, land girl.
I exhaled, then chuckled at myself. Here I was, a grown woman, nearly taken out by a combination of nostalgia, wind, and footwear with a romantic origin story.
“Kevin would’ve loved this moment,” I muttered. “Roxanne’s flip-flops, bravely hanging on for dear life. Ten out of ten drama. Five out of five toes.”
The thought made me smile, but it didn’t sting the way it used to. It felt like folding an old letter and putting it away properly—still a part of you, just not in your pocket anymore.
I stood a safe distance from the edge and watched the waves for a while. The ocean didn’t need me to get closer. It was already doing what it always does: showing off. It sparkled and roared and whispered all at once.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from my mom: Are you close? Your dad is acting like he “just happened” to grill extra chicken.
Classic Dad. The man could claim coincidence while holding a spatula like a trophy.
I looked out at the water one last time, letting the sound settle into me. I didn’t have to dive in to feel connected. I didn’t have to prove anything. Sometimes it’s enough to just show up, stand still, and let a place remind you who you are.
I turned back toward my car, flip-flops flapping like applause.
“Alright,” I said, half to the ocean and half to myself. “I’ll come back when I’m not wearing shoes meant for cute heartbreak.”
And as I drove off—with bossa nova playing and the coastline fading behind me—I realized something:
The ocean hadn’t just called me to look.
It had called me to breathe.
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