A Day at the Ocean “Let’s go to the ocean,” said my six-year-old, Cherry Tootsie Pop licking son. “We only have one day,” said my pragmatic pregnant wife, “and it’s a two-day drive to the ocean.” We piled in the car the next day and headed for the amusement park. During the drive the clouds were very depressed and cried almost all of the way there. Yet, when we arrived the schizophrenic, Ohio sky had changed its mood and was happy and sunny. Inside the park, between the long-lined, tallest roller coaster and the pink trailer selling cotton candy, my son found a puddle. A puddle as big as the ocean. My wife and I sat on our chaise lounge bench and watched our son splash and run in and out of the crashing waves. He spoke with the jelly fish and built sandcastles out of spilt red and blue sugar from the cotton candy machine. As the sun began to set, we walked back to the car, my son exhausted from a day at the ocean, asleep on my shoulder, never having rode a single ride.