One
I know why Nicholas Sparks sets all his books in North Carolina. It is beautiful, romantic, and full of hope—maybe false hope, but hope. That’s exactly why I chose South Carolina instead. It was equally beautiful, but it did not evoke the same sense of romanticism that I associated with North Carolina. It did not set me up with unrealistic expectations like North Carolina did.
Yes, I chose South Carolina because Nicholas Sparks ruined North Carolina for me. Although not all his books ended with a happily ever after. Mostly, they ended in tears for me. Love stories with sad endings. Or happy endings from sad beginnings. But I couldn’t escape the beauty of the coast he described.
After years of reading his books as a sort of guilty pleasure, I had developed an image in my mind of a perfect place to live. Endless beaches and majestic sunrises and sunsets. When it came time for me to choose where to begin anew, in my fifties, it was the first place I considered. However, I was imperfect and did not want to start over with expectations too high. That’s how I rationalized it. I did not have the same expectations of South Carolina. I could have my own story there without any shadows being cast by another Nicholas Sparks novel.
When asked why I would leave the comfort of my life on the West Coast, I tell people that divorce drove me away; I wanted and needed a place to begin anew. It’s a half-truth.
I was dying to leave my Southern California home most of my life. People spend their entire lives in one place, and I never wanted to be that person. I often felt like I was suffocating in one spot, knowing a world of experiences was just around the corner. Or maybe I was just anxious, knowing there was so much to see and do outside of my life’s bubble.
Most people consider Oceanside a perfect place to live. It morphed from a military seaside community to one of the largest suburbs of San Diego. My dad’s military service first brought my parents here. They fell in love with the proximity to the ocean and the affordable home prices. It was idyllic, and over time, it began to outgrow its military town label and become an actual tourist destination.
I was a lifeguard at the city beaches in the summer during high school and college. Back then, the beaches were covered in white sand. Erosion has given way to rocks, less oceanfront land, and the annual dredging project, an effort to add back sand. Oceanside’s pier boasts being the longest wooden pier on the West Coast. I had a front-row seat as Oceanside grew into a tourist destination over the years. But I often felt like an outsider looking in, trying to find my place there.
The fact I raised my family in a place I never felt part of brings me no sadness. Their experiences growing up were so much less dramatic than mine. Of course, that’s perceived drama. Self-inflicted mostly. I never felt like I personified the California girl people saw me as. I was insecure. Never felt pretty enough. Never quite embodying the stereotype I drank like Kool-Aid: blonde, skinny, perfect figure in an itty-bitty bikini, ditsy, carefree, sun-loving. The idealized girl from movies and magazines. I knew no one like that. I knew that then. But even so, my home never quite felt like a place I belonged.
My decades-long marriage is over. My children were raised and live life mostly on their terms. I embrace that before I become too old or bitter or resentful for a life not fully lived, it’s time to try the unfamiliar parts. I want green and the ocean. I want history at my doorstep. I want weekend trips to Europe.
On my own. Divorced. God, that’s such a strong word. I would say it was mutually earned, but, in the end, I deserve more credit for the demise of my marriage than he ever did, acknowledging that no marriage solely ends at the hand of one person. Both are complicit. Maybe we share credit. But the blame is on me.
