That quickly, she is gone off to explore. I close the door and, for an instant, leaving New York in the car, I can’t move. I’m hit by an unexpected moment, the balmy scent of my childhood is that strong around me. No, it isn’t the same at other beaches, and purity is a dodge. What’s different here is memory, which hugs me with myriad arms before I can think to raise my guard. Held in its grip, I remember the ripeness of sea-soaked bathing suits, the smell of fresh fish at the docks, the sweetness of full bellies in a delicate crust—and above it, the screech of gulls, the slap of a screen door, and always, muted or clear, the roll of the waves.

From the parking lot, I can’t see those waves over a string of dunes. But I do see things to save. Flipping the glasses to my head and the camera to my eye, I photograph the blur-of-color Joy makes as she strides past the Clam Shack’s weathered-gray siding. Distracted by that siding, I close in on its texture, then back away again to shoot shadows that sharpen as a cloud gives way to blue. Lowering the camera, I replace the shades, but as soon as I round the corner, there’s more photo bait. Glasses up, camera to eye, I take pictures of a family of four in blue BAY BLUFF T-shirts, newly bought, folds still fresh. I zoom in for close-ups of the town name, momentarily an ironic Bay Buff when the teenage boy wearing it reaches to scratch his back. Shifting focus, I spot three dogs sitting like a trio of old men on the bench in the center of the square.

Dogs are safer than seeing people I recognize, although there haven’t been any of the latter yet. There will be. That was the danger of stopping here first and the wisdom of ball cap, glasses, and camera. I haven’t changed much in twenty years. I still wear my hair long, it’s still light brown, and the ends still frizz in ocean air. I’m still five-six, still 125 pounds—okay, before breakfast and naked, but my point stands. Twenty years isn’t that long a time.