These creeping waves, forever breaking, breaking in their hypnotic chain, Advancing from the dark and green beyond the coppery haunches of the sand Where I lie, mimicking the crackle-bleached wood strewn about the beach. Do they know the promise of approaching perfection? All the earmarks of paradise here afforded? Palm trees looming over cool pools teeming with anemones and birds, shrimp pink flamingoes growing fat on the fecund land of this tropical resort. Each wave crashes headlong in the break; scads of crabs scurry to their last resort, clawing through a million flooded capillaries interlocked like links of chain, fleeing the apocalyptic surf and the ravenous beaks of dive-bombing sea birds. For prey, the spray and wash of brine is but a blasé background; and flour fine sand Only impedes getaway speed. Familiarity breeds contempt even in paradise, And nature’s splendor patently pales when death lurks sullenly on the beach. Sometimes, through the veil of wine my grandfather speaks of Omaha Beach, Belly down in red and grating surf, refuge behind the iron bulwarks his only resort. He once said, “that day I never prayed more there was a God in heaven’s paradise, And I was never more certain there was not.” Heroism flows downhill. The chain Of command makes certain of that. Expendable men dashed over blood breeched sand, While flak packed shells burst overhead like flocks of terror driven birds. The beaches of my youth are different than these. They are filled with bluefish and birds Seeking discarded bait. Fishing beaches, surfing beaches, Jersey beaches, Fat trimmed pepperoni pizzas consumed on moss slick jetties. Sand Wedged by whip-happy wind against the creaking boardwalks and Jersey shore resorts. Motels for families from Piscataway and Hackensack, happy and fat, fed by 1,000 chain Restaurants lining the Parkway South like so many neon pearls. My salt-sweet paradise Was Barnacle Bill’s of Ortley Beach, aptly advertised: a “video game paradise,” A cramped hut glowing with the blue glimmer of firing pixels. Outside the birds restlessly caroled atop a colossal Paul Bunyan, while chubby hands challenged the chain link fence within the18th hole of mini golf, no free games at Bill’s expense. The beach always beckoned though. I surfed and swam, and when the sea fell lake flat I resorted to skimboards, master of my universe, slipping silently across the hard packed sand, the sun sinking slowly; my memory is my youth’s ghost. This Yucatan sand has intoxicated me with ramble wracked reminiscence. My paradise lies now in the maturing mind to which I can resort at my own leisure. The smile splits my mouth because the piper birds dance, frazzled at the water’s edge, the retreating waves sizzle as they drag back from the beach, and I can retreat to a time when I counted down to Summer with links on a paper chain. This resort vacation has sparked unmatched cerebral serendipity, igniting a chain Of memories as infinite as the grains of sand on this beach. No prayer needed here Herbert. My heart is in pilgrimage, and my paradise has its own birds. Kevin Koenig is a junior at Georgetown University. He is originally from Cedar Grove, New Jersey.