Dear Sandy Point,

Thank you for all the summer memories you've been a part of. Thank you for all the activities that I only could've experienced with you.

Every high tide, I waded to the folly, taking the treacherous climb up the cement mass. Once on the top, I would gaze into the horizon peacefully, taking in the beauty of seeing the shoreline of three separate states: New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island. After a while, I would leap off of the 12 foot mass into the ocean while boats zoomed past. Thank you, Sandy Point, for the adrenaline rushes, and the beautiful views.

Hours later during low tide, my childhood friends and I would walk down to the point, running into the water. The drop off would always surprise us, but nevertheless, front flip competitions would always follow. After a few rounds, my friends and I would grab onto each others' arms and legs, letting the current push us back to our families. Thank you, Sandy Point, for the friendships you helped create through these moments.

Thank you, Sandy Point, for teaching me about the indigenous wildlife. Walking down the beach, all too often aggressive seagulls would intrude on my path. One afternoon, on a walk with my younger brother, Jacob, I instantly knew not to mess with these gulls. As we reached "Gull Alley," the strip of the beach where aggressive seagulls stalk beach-goers with beady eyes, the birds began to dive bomb us. Maybe this path was not the best route for Jacob and I to take, but we stuck to our plan, sprinting down the beach in zigzags.

Sandy Point, thank you for being my "home." Although you are only a beach island, looking out at you from the docks at my marina brings tremendous joy to me.