We abandon the cold tiled floors and narrow balcony of our twelfth-floor hotel room, pass the pool, and go down the sand-covered stairs that lead to the beach. The grains of sand slide and crunch under my flip-flops. My almost-two year old is tucked between the crook of my arm and my chest, one pudgy little arm wrapped around my shoulder. The sky is azure and the ocean is undulating layers of marine blue, turquoise, and teal, capped by frothy white waves.

Yet clumps of wiry, brick-colored seaweed litter the sandy beach, and waves crash roughly against the shore, causing my chest to tighten each time my toddler nears the water. My critical eye, my worrying mind, pull me out of the moment. But maybe it's a myth that beauty and ugliness are opposites, that presence and absence are contrary to each other—a myth that we have to abandon one to achieve the other.

Malibu, California

We'd just eaten a lunch of fried cod and lemonade at Malibu Seafood and were driving back to Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway. We wanted to get closer to the ocean, so we found a place to pull over and parked. The beach there was all rocks and old cement blocks. We tottered over them while taking in the view. The cars roared and the waves crashed. The air smelled like salt and, just a little, rotting vegetation. Everywhere I looked I saw lines: the coastline, the ocean abutting it, the highway, and a line of wooden posts, water- and wind-worn, holding up the ghost of an old pier.

Haena State Park

We hiked the strenuous path that would take us to a hidden beach. The steady uphill climb left our shoes and ankles muddy and our legs aching, a thick, green canopy overhead and tropical brush on either side of us. Partway there, we reached an overlook that peered over a popular beach: paper clip-sized people, sea green water, and an impossibly large reef. The shouts and laughter were lost in the space between us, replaced by the chirps and scuffles of the forest. Sometimes life appears most beautiful when you are looking at it from a distance.

Newport Beach, California

A fisher casts his line into the water at the edge of Balboa Pier. When you pier-fish, you're standing on a large, safe structure, but you're already well out to sea. You see the sun glinting off the mellow waves. You hear the whooshing of the lapping waves and the wind. You smell the salty air and your catch. And you have nothing to do but wait, but it's a good wait, because if you stand there long enough you're bound to catch some good fish.

Tunnels Beach, Kauai

The first full day of our trip to Kauai, we woke up to miraculous sunshine, having driven through thick rain all the way from the airport the day before. We packed up and headed straight to Tunnels Beach for sunbathing, swimming, and snorkeling. I strode down the hot sand until reaching the water—the temperature of a warm bath—and then kept on walking. I slipped the goggles over my eyes and put my mouthpiece in and then, with a quick breath, I entered a breathtaking underwater world, opaque and emerald colored. Spindly reefs hiding whole colonies of sea creatures stretched out into the ocean and reached up toward the surface. I saw a sea turtle pass below me. Jewel-toned fish swam around me, scattering when I got too close—except for a bright blue and yellow one, who swam alongside me, inching closer and darting away, like some aquatic Pan.

Lake Tahoe

It could have been any other beach. The sand was hot and grainy under my feet, the sun a warm embrace, and rainbow-colored beach umbrellas bobbed down the coastline. But the evergreens, marching down the mountainside, told another story. And when I stepped into the clear blue water, I was unmistakeably at Lake Tahoe. The cold water, cold even in August, took a few minutes to get used to, and instead of the salty grip of the ocean, I felt the light, cool touch of fresh water, and I emerged feeling refreshed, like after a baptism.