Buckle up kids, this is a long personal essay with a tiny beach review pasted on.

The first time I saw Main Street Beach, I remember “tonight I’m gonna party like its 1999” pouring out of the radio and butterflies in my stomach. Of course, it actually was 1999, and I can’t remember the exact make of the car, only that it had a brown exterior, a leather interior, and a driver with three buttons open and an easy smile.

We walked down near the lighthouse, sat close, and watched the waves come in and the sun go down. I remember a beautiful willow tree nearby and my feet in warm sand. 

On the way there, he had suggested it was a hidden gem of a spot, and sure enough we were the only two people there. I can’t recall if it was early or late in the summer, but both of us had a lot weighing on our minds with college looming, me still reeling from the loss of my dad. 

We talked about it all, and then we didn’t.

Nearly 23 years later, I would visit the beach again, in the middle of a frozen January. Not only because I had fallen in love with beach glass, but also because I wanted to feel close to him on the day of his funeral. He was 41.

Dan was one of those people that made a lasting impression. The first time we met, I had my mom drive me to Rebman’s instead of Park Lanes for the Leo Club bowling fundraiser day. After she pulled away, I went inside to find that I was in the wrong place. The President of the Lorain chapter welcomed me and before we left suggested exchanging numbers – for official club business. Sure Dan, sure.

When I heard of his passing, I realized we hadn’t had a deep conversation in a few years. When we were in high school and college we talked daily, sometimes into the wee hours, and then weekly, and then less and less frequently as we grew into our own lives. Now that he’s gone, I realize that I thought (think) of him quite often. 

Many of the conversations were deep. Some were dark, and some were existential. 

I never became part of his family or his friend group, so now that he's gone, I’m the only witness to that closeness.

Have you ever known someone who you always figured life would bring you back around to? I could just imagine us being neighbors at a nursing home, our spouses gone, too old to do much other than sit outside together watching the sun set. Even before I met my husband, I knew that Dan and I weren’t meant to be together during this season, but he was still special to me.

The universe likes to remind me that he’s gone by putting the song he first kissed me to at the head of my randomized playlist of more than 500 songs. It’s happened at least five times since he passed.

… Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you…

If I thought that was an odd song for a first kiss, I find it stranger when I hit shuffle, and it’s the first song these days. Are you watching me? I felt like you were on the day of your funeral. 

I learned a VERY important beachcombing lesson at Main Street Beach last January: know where your car keys are at all times and make damn sure it’s a secure place.

After playing Ave Maria at your mass, placing a flower on your casket, and awkwardly introducing myself to people at your memorial luncheon, I found myself driving to Main Street beach. I wanted to be somewhere that I remembered you warm, tan, smiling, happy to wash the image of you from the wake the night before out of my mind.

Here I found myself, wandering hundreds of feet down a completely frozen shore, watching kids walk out onto the lake – too far onto the lake. I would bend down to shuffle some rocks, looking for glass. The weather was warm after a deep freeze, and the ice could be heard crackling.

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