Looking back at my childhood, I have to say it’s miraculous that bad things didn’t happen to me. And I don’t glibly use the term “miraculous.” I don’t always consider myself old, but when I look back at my childhood, it does seem quite different from the times that today’s kids are growing up in. Yes, I think child molesters and kidnappers and murderers, etc. existed 25 years ago, but it seems they and other nefarious things now reside closer to our homes. All kinds of things that used to be hush-hush are now seemingly commonplace, heck, even paraded. Of course the LGBTQ scene comes to mind. Sexual identity is now a matter of how one feels on a given day as opposed to the hard facts of biology, what parts one was endowed with at birth. And this topic has become of paramount importance in public places, as companies have to decide which bathrooms people are supposed to use. Commercials stream freely for HIV and Hepatitis C drugs. Chastity is almost unheard-of. Pornography is at our fingertips, as is the ability to buy almost anything with the click of a button. We can see what everyone else is doing all the time, thanks to social media. Many kids grow up in single-parent households.

Anyway, the purpose of this piece is to describe where I grew up and some parts of my childhood. There were still plenty of times, looking back, when things could have gone wrong for me. I think about Elizabeth Smart and the hell she lived through for 9 months when just 14-years-old. That easily could have been me. I grew up in church. We didn’t go all the time, but just once a week on Sundays. I was fortunate enough to have both a loving mother and father in my home. My parents sent my brother and I to a Christian school.

I grew up in a place called Ocean View, a quaint community in Norfolk, VA, right on the Chesapeake Bay. More precisely, we lived on the peninsula of Ocean View, a little strip of land that stretches out into the bay like a hooked finger. That peninsula is called Willoughby Spit. It was formed by a hurricane, so the story goes, back in the 1700s. The Willoughby Bay is on one side and the Chesapeake Bay on the other. The land sits low, and rumor has it that Norfolk is sinking. Hurricanes, nor-Easters, and even just torrential summertime downpours pose a significant flood threat. The several mile stretch of beach in Willoughby is lovely. One can see the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel with its massive, trunk-like concrete legs standing there in the water supporting the bridge – a modern marvel when I consider its construction. Wooden boardwalks are available for beach access every several blocks. The bay’s waters are a dark blue-green in color and salty in smell. Massive rocks compose jetties just a ways out from the shore. There’s painted signs in front of the jetties now – a picture of a stick man climbing on the jetties with a big red circle around it and a thick red line going through it. In other words, no climbing on the jetties. I can’t remember if these signs existed back when I lived in Willoughby. I admit I have enjoyed a few climbs onto the massive rocks – and with various dogs (Misty and Daisy, mostly). The view is lovely from the jetties as are the sounds. Water hitting them below, the smell of the salty bay air. Birds flying over. It’s like being one with nature.

I remember one summer day I got the brilliant idea to ride my bike the roughly 2.5 miles down the main road (Ocean View Avenue) so I could work on my basketball skills. I was 14, white, blonde-haired, 5 foot 3, about 125 pounds. I played some pick-up basketball with grown African American men, probably in their 20s, 6’3, 200+ pounds. I remember my dad pulling up in his white van. The look on his face said it all. Anger, disappointment, frustration. I never asked, but I guess he found me because I must have told my mom where I was going – the rec center. Or maybe my dad recognized the cool-blue beach cruiser I parked right beside the outdoor basketball court on that busy road. He hoisted up the bike into his truck and we got out of there fast. I don’t even remember him saying much to me. Believe me, I could tell by his facial expression that I was not to go back. And my father seldom ever got angry. I had felt bad about upsetting him.

One time, when much younger, my friend Tara and I decided to venture out in the paddle boat in Willoughby Bay. She lived in a really big house on the beach with her mom and stepdad. I think we were about 10-years-old. We decided to put our pretty one-piece swimsuits on and head out in the paddle boat. I think we did have enough sense to wear life jackets. I felt really cool because I wore Tara’s light pink swim suit. She even said I looked pretty. We paddled down Willoughby Bay, past the Captain’s Quarters Rec Center, and even paddled under part of the bridge that leads to the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. We chose to scope out the little island (we thought it was an island) across from the Captain Quarters Rec Center. It turns out we were on U.S. Government Property and a piece of land that attached to the largest naval base in the world. There were no aircraft carriers in this turf, so we had no clue. We parked our little plastic paddle boat there on the shoreline, walked around in what looked like a jungle (pampas grass abounding), and then turned back home. When I got home, my dad was flustered. I don’t think we’d told any adults where we’d gone. Two adolescent girls roaming around navy property in bathing suits. It could have had a sad ending, but I’m glad it didn’t.

Willoughby will always hold a special place in my heart. Even today I really enjoy driving the strip from 4^th View Street by the beloved Thirsty Camel and the OV Fishing Pier down to 13^th View Street and past the majestic Willoughby Boat Ramp. The road sits level with the bay almost. Sometimes I can look out and see Navy helicopters in Willoughby Bay, hovering over the water during training missions. Nowadays the houses sit up higher – either built that way brand new or remodeled so.

I fear my trips to Willoughby now are limited. I’m older. My parents are getting older, too. They still reside in that old stone house on the corner, built back in the early 1900s. It stands after many storms. I’m grateful my parents are still there. The little Winn-Dixie (which we used to call “The Candy Store”) is now an empty lot. My old friends – Alex, Tara, Christina, James, Emily, Allison – are no longer there. And as sure as the wind blows and the sun shines I believe one day Willoughby will sadly wash away like everything else. For now, while it stands, I’ll enjoy it. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a special place.  ~