Where's my beach?

I miss the ocean.

I have a busy head. When I'm near the ocean, my mind is on pause.

In college, I could drive to the beach and escape everything—boys who flirted and didn't call, history books written for robots (certainly humans weren't the intended audience), parents who didn't live together any more, the pressure to be pretty and smart and rich.

I'd hop in my blue Mazda GLC with the windows down, sun pouring in through the windshield and Tom Petty singing in the background as I'd break the speed limit on PCH. I'd drive all the way from Santa Monica to Malibu (forty five minutes) just to buy yogurt and granola at the Health Food store.

My flip flops smacked the pavement as I padded across the highway. I'd perch on top of a boulder and peer out over the unremarkable beach. (If you haven't been to Malibu, let me spare you romantic illusions. The "real" Malibu beach is tiny and full of rocks. The strip of sand from shore to water is narrow. And it's dirty sand - the kind that feels like you've reversed the vaccuum cleaner and blown dust all over yourself.)

It didn't matter. I'd slowly suck the yogurt off my plastic spoon, gazing undistractedly at the water, the sky, the gulls.

And then I'd feel good again. Peaceful.

So what I want to know is: Where the hell is my beach in Ohio?