After living most of my life inner-city — the only water nearby being the Hudson, the river with an attitude, and what came out of our faucets — I never developed a passion for or even a passing interest in the ocean. Never craved a day at the beach, never felt I was missing out on anything seashore-related. Wouldn’t you know it, after marriage, I ended up living an eight-minute walk from a beach — a beach with a boardwalk, restaurants, mini golf, joggers, dog walkers, and so many toddler-filled strollers. Where I live now, there are several nearby marinas, and 25 years ago, ten years after we were married, my husband — an avid fisherman and lover of the sea — bought a boat. I’ve still never been on it. I went to his dock one season to take photos when he was launching the boat, but the dock rolled in sync with the waves. I felt nauseous. I moved on.

Residing in this maritime, very suburban environment — meaning there aren’t a lot of sidewalks but lots of lawns that border the street — when I want to take a walk for exercise or to get away from my computer, the beach is only place to go. 

I walk early, before the beach-yoga women arrive. Before the preschoolers are hurling frisbees at their nannies or driving tricycles into passersby. Before I am subject to too many cell phone conversations that I shouldn’t be hearing. But honestly, what time do dog-walkers get up? 

My knees are not what they used to be, so I walk slowly. Sometimes, I rest on a bench that, of course, faces the water. Can’t sit too long because the movement, the roller-coaster motion of the water, the incessant waves make me seasick even though I’m sitting on a stable wooden bench on an immobile wooden boardwalk. The water is not beautiful to me. I move on.

This morning, among the dogwalkers are several parents and/or nannies with small children marveling at nature. “Look down there!” a thirty-something woman holding a juice box and a tube of yogurt yells to her scrambling kids. “A horseshoe crab. Isn’t it beautiful?” 

There weren’t a lot of horseshoe crabs in Jersey City, where I grew up. Truth, I had never seen one in person, close-up. I peek over the wooden boardwalk rail to see this beautiful creature. It sits, sleeping or dead, at the base of moss-covered boulders surrounded by mushy green swirling stuff, like giant snot, and I see nothing “beautiful.” I see a crab that looks like a mash-up of a huge insect and a rock. The longer I look at it the creepier it seems. I move on.

With no ear buds or music to override the sound of the insistent waves, I feel queasy and find another bench. The breeze feels like a gentle caretaker placing a damp cloth on my forehead, and for a moment I forget the Long island Sound is all round me. Until I smell it. Salty, mildewed, uric-acid-like. I move on.

I walk to the very end of the pier where locals hand-carry their fishing gear and toss lines over the boardwalk railing. Their nimble fingers and expertise at their craft impresses me, and one has a radio tuned to an oldies station playing music from the 80s. Squeeze, my favorite band, was on. I never hear them on the radio. I stand there until “Pulling Mussels (from the Shell)” is over. Not kidding. Of all songs. As I turn to leave, I spot a slimy, silvery, smelly fish on the ground, maybe someone’s bait. Its eyes are steel, and its mouth is open as if it’s about to vomit, just like me. I move on.

Some feel calm being near water. Some absorb the beauty of nature while walking along the beach and feel their spirit rise. The sound of waves even puts some to sleep. I’m not one of them. Even though I don’t like it, I don’t believe in harming any part of nature and do believe in keeping it healthy. Well, full disclosure, I’m not against killing bugs. I fear them that much. What kept me awake all night recently, after watching the news, was not the numerous stories of violence on the streets or the political insanity. I was haunted, and still am, by the arrival from China on American shores of a black-and-yellow spider that with legs extended is the size of a dinner plate. Sometimes, nature goes too far.

Although nature is not my thing, I don’t litter, pick flowers off bushes, or kick rocks. I bring reusable shopping bags to the grocery store. I get that nature has wonders to offer for a lot of people, and trees do us a solid by changing carbon dioxide into oxygen. Nature has its upside. I just don’t want to be involved with it. I don’t even have house plants. As far as I’m concerned, everything leafy is a potential insect habitat. Who needs that on an end table? Trees, water, animals, fish, bugs, birds, and mountains don’t do it for me. I’m a confirmed cement person. I like buildings with elevators and streets with sidewalks. Because of that, I can spend just so much time around all that natural beauty and those dizzying waves.  

I accept the majority doesn’t agree with me, and I’m fine with that. Since we live in the you-be-you era — when everyone is supposed to be proud of who they are, accept everyone’s differences, and live their truth — then I’m putting my truth out there. I don’t like nature, especially water and bugs, and I don’t expect to be hated for it. After all, if someone doesn’t like dark chocolate, I don’t hold that against them. 

I may start walking around the train station parking lot —cement ground, traffic, wires, streetlights. While there are a lot of pigeons to dodge, there are no bodies of water — other than the puddles in potholes — and definitely no horseshoe crabs. The people who live for active wear and to-go coffee cups can keep the boardwalk. I’m moving on in maxi skirts, makeup, and still wishing God never created centipedes.

– Maureen Mancini Amaturo