Everyone has a happy place—a location in which they can go to or think about that immediately brings them peace or joy. 

Mine happens to be quite cliche.

But not to me.

My happy place is more special than it appears. It seems like a washed-up, small, beat-up beach town, but to me, it is like my second home.

This beach is something that I hold dear to my heart.

It is where my family and friends would go for the entire day. We would let the sunburn our skin. Where we would drink Del’s Lemonade until we got stomach aches. It was where I first learned how to boogie board. It was where I would swim in the ocean for hours and hours until my fingertips looked like raisins, and my eyes ached from the acidic water.

It is where, even after I moved to different states around the country, we would meet up and continue our traditions.

We would eat at a small, slowly-crumbling restaurant that was on the shore-line, where my mom and her best friend would laugh all night long about who knows what. 

We would always laugh when we walked in, always anticipating someone getting pooped on by a seagull from up above. For years, someone was always “lucky.” 

My dad and I used to go to a hidden ice cream stand that had our favorite flavor of ice cream: black cherry. Right next door, there was a small boutique where he bought my sister and I matching rings that resemble a wave. 

Right down the road, was a sad and frowning “carnival” that had a rusted carousel and bumper cars with fading neon lights.

This place—my place. It seems like such a basic place.

Its characteristics don’t scream appealing. It takes a true believer in this place to fully comprehend it’s layers of beauty.

Who would want to go to a run-down, hurricane beaten beach that is falling apart at the seams?

I do.

If I could, if I had any one wish in this world, I would go there right now. I would drop everything to go to this place; it is where I find happiness.

Not many know about this place. 

It is hidden.

Here’s the truth, however. I am okay with that. I don’t want anyone to know its name, because then it is no longer mine.

If I tell you its name, you may try to take it from me. 

You may try to rip it from my hands and tear it up in a million little pieces.

It is where my family and friends went over summer vacation. It is where I used to swim in the ocean until my fingers looked like raisins. It is where we used to drink Del’s Lemonade until our stomach’s hurt.

It is my happy place.