It was a 17-minute drive
from the Amelia Earhart statue to the beach,
a minute more from the museum with the VHS tape of her trans-Atlantic takeoff
a minute and a half less from the stretch of grass that was her runway.

A thick stretch of beach
where the Atlantic was as cold as everyone promised.
We were towel-less and suit-less, but swam anyway,
and later found a straggling line
of brackish water
reaching towards the retreating ocean,
the salt seeping upstream.