A hundred other lonely kids come here, up rooted from the high school parking lots and onto this beach. they come here to sit on these old docks and toss cigarette butts into the waves. They gather in packs and drink beer until they tumble into the sand, sweaty palms clutching fists full of earth. there's something about this beac that makes me feel alive. -and yet, one would hardly call it a beach. unkempt green shoots sprout from a blanket of golden sand, cut short by the winding docks that curve around the land. and though they end short, we never seem to mind. this wooden walkway stands naked against the waves. those boards moan in protest under eer step that we take, bending to the weight of our scuffed up steakers. yet we continue to press on, along those old docks that led us to a wooden bench. and here we were, finally, a place to stay up past our bedtimes. "Diana's Beach" as we called it, didn't serve a purpose for anyone else in this world. When David Guterson wrote "here we are free to wander endlessly and to furtively watch our fellow wanderers, thousands upon thousands of milling strangers who have come with the intent of losing themselves", he couldn't have been more right. At least about this spot, this beach this small edge of land that was free- just like we had wanted to be. when you parked down a the end of Eaton Lane, you met a whole crowd of kids, some more messed up than you- all with one thing in common: the freedom that you had been looking for.
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