My memories of those times are always the same; I recall the sound of a wooden screen door slamming and the feel of slightly wet, pre-dusk grass under my bare feet, just before dinner. The scents of boiling potatoes and fresh flounder sauteing in butter waft out the back door, mixing with those of freshly trimmed privet and salt air.

Although I could always hear the unceasing rhythm of ocean waves two blocks from our house, it must have been as rudimentary to me as my own heartbeat; I didn't really notice it, except when all else was very still.