I am an island

By Karen Costa

Our barrier islands aren't dead. But they are bleeding. And if you have island in your blood, you're bleeding, too.

We saw our tiny bayside cottage in the chopper footage the other day, sitting squarely where we left it - on the 27th Street peninsula in Ship Bottom, on our beloved Long Beach Island. We still bleed, but at least now we can breathe.

How do you explain this feeling to the people who say things like, "Well, the most important thing is that everyone is OK"? They don't know that a place can become like a person. It can weave itself into the fabric of who you are, so that when you see it covered in water, you feel as if you are drowning, too.

They don't know that your heart aches every fall when you say goodbye, and that you aren't quite yourself again until you return in the spring. They think that you can only love people like that, but they're wrong. I'm not the only one who has been talking to the island the last few days, whispering that everything will be all right, just as I would comfort a sick child.

I'm an islander on both sides. My mother and father met on the beach at the end of 13th Street, while my mom was sunbathing and my dad was working as a lifeguard. LBI holds history and memories like that for many of us. We never saw it as a vacation home or a second home; it was our heart, beating outside our chests, made up of bay water, beach sand, crabbing, sunsets, and family. It was, is, and will always be in our blood.

When my husband and I got engaged eight years ago, on the beach at sunrise, there was never a question of where the wedding would be. "On the bay," I told my parents. "At Gram's house." Where else could I possibly get married?

And where will my ashes be spread after I'm gone? I gave my husband specific instructions: Off the dock at 27th, where the falling sun hits the water and makes it shine.

Where do we go in our moments of great pain or happiness? We go home, knowing that the waters that have wounded us are the same ones that have healed us for countless years.

My brother texted me in the middle of the monster storm: "You know what can't get washed away? The bay." A bit corny, yes, but it's true. We'll rebuild, and we'll be even stronger when we're done, because our beautiful barrier islands are not just buildings, boats, and houses. They are our homes, our joy, and our salty tears.