The Miracle That Wasn’t

When I was little, my stepfather believed family adventures didn’t need much planning. All it took was whatever was left of the keg from the night before, a van full of partiers, and two kids eager for fun.

One weekend, after serving as “underage bartenders” at my parents’ backyard keg party, my sister and I found ourselves standing at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The water was so icy it made our teeth chatter, but we couldn’t get enough of it. We jumped, splashed, and laughed until we couldn’t feel the cold anymore.

Eventually, we turned toward shore and were stunned to see that our camp was gone. In the distance, barely a blur, were the tents and the bonfire. We were convinced the ocean itself had carried us away. For years, we told that story as if it was proof of the sea’s secret magic.

Then, in my thirties, my mother casually let slip that it hadn’t been the ocean at all. The adults had moved camp down the beach as a prank.

At first, I was crushed. Then my sister and I laughed until tears streamed down our faces. Because in the end, the miracle wasn’t in the ocean at all. It was in the joy we felt, the freedom of believing, and the laughter that still carries us today.