At grandmother’s summer home in Maine, we were by the ocean. At the foot of the hill, down from the house, were five small beaches where we all learned to swim and where we spent many happy hours building sandcastles.

There was also a long pier with a runway and float, for my grandparents had friends who travelled by boat to visit with them. We were not allowed out on the pier without an adult.

At the beginning of the pier was an old grey wooden box, which contained cod lines all wound up on spools. These were ‘drop lines’ – no reels or poles. One simply held them over the gunnels of a boat or railing of a pier and let them fall into the water below. They usually had sinkers attached, for they were going after bottom food. We got flounder on some of the smaller ones.

I had a red one-piece bathing suit when I was five and I wore old sneakers that I used for clamming. I was playing in one of the beaches while Nanny and Jeff were with me. Jeff wanted to go up to the house, so Nanny started to take him there. She encouraged me to join them, but I wanted to finish my castle.

“Now listen, lassie,” Nanny warned, “you stay right here on this beach, or come up to the house.” I nodded absent-mindedly. She left with Jeff. It was funny to see her in casual clothing, for she was always so carefully dressed in starched outfits and white aprons.

I saw some seaweed on some rocks nearby, and I thought it would make wonderful thatched roofs for my village. I climbed up out of my beach and pulled at the seaweed just over on the other side of the rocks. My eye spotted the pier. I had never been down here alone before and I was feeling extremely grown-up.

Carefully, I opened the fishing line box and took out a line. I held the railings and walked carefully the full length of the pier and down the gangway to the float. The tide was high, so the gangway was nearly level.

When I got there, the gentle swaying of the float caused me some concern, so I lay down on my stomach and peeked over the edge of the float, looking down into the deep water. The sun felt warm and soft on my back, and the sound of the waves lapping on the sides of the float was hypnotic. I became very drowsy.

I must have fallen asleep – but a splash woke me. There was a seal near and studying me. I just watched until he disappeared under the water and was gone. I must have drifted off again. It was a wonderful place.

Suddenly, a hand slipped around my waist and lifted me up. I was so sleepy that I was dizzy. It was Nanny. “What are you doing out here? I told you to stay on the beach!” She set me down and held my hand carefully as I was ushered ahead of her back to land. I told her about the seal and how beautiful the wave sounds were, but Nanny wouldn’t discuss it.

Apparently, she had seen me lying on the float while up at the house, and had nearly broken her neck racing down the long hill to rescue me from the float.

She plopped herself on a fallen log and put me over her knees. The rough bark pressed against my stomach, and I could feel the cool shade of the trees above, but my cheeks were burning with embarrassment and fear. Then, Nanny’s hand came down—sharp and sudden—on the seat of my bathing suit. The sting was immediate, a hot, tingling shock that made me gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet air: a crisp, flat smack, followed by another, and then another, each one landing on alternating sides. My skin prickled and my eyes filled with tears. I could hear the distant cry of a gull and the soft rush of the ocean, but all I could focus on was the sharp, rhythmic slaps and the way my legs kicked helplessly with each one. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt a strange mix of shame, regret, and longing for comfort. The world seemed to shrink to the rough log, Nanny’s firm grip, and the stinging heat spreading across my bottom. I cried out, not just from the pain, but from the shock of how quickly my glorious adventure had turned into this.

It was so awful that I cried out in absolute shock. I had been having such a glorious time, and here things had gone to worms so suddenly.

All the time, I was getting a lecture about being forbidden to be on that pier or float in the first place. When Nanny had finished with me, she slapped my bottom all the way up the hill to the house. I came up on the back porch in tears.

Grandmother came out of the dining room and asked what was wrong. When she heard, she said that she was frightened just to hear about this. She began in on me as well about being on the float alone. She reached up on the wall just outside the door of the kitchen and took down a wooden spoon. I backed away, my heart thumping in my chest, the memory of Nanny’s spanking still burning on my skin.

Grandmother’s face was stern, but her eyes were full of worry and love. She took my arm with a gentle but unyielding grip, her hands cool and steady, and turned me so that my bottom would be an easy target. The kitchen was filled with the golden afternoon light, the scent of baking bread and salt air drifting through the open window. I could hear the distant laughter of my cousins outside, the clink of teacups being set for the family gathering, and the creak of the old wooden floor beneath my feet.

Before she began, I caught a glimpse of the wooden spoon in her hand. It was long and sturdy, the handle worn smooth from years of use, fitting perfectly in her grasp. The bowl of the spoon was broad and slightly oval, its surface darkened with age and faintly stained from countless stirrings of soups and jams. The wood was cool to the touch, but the edges were rounded and polished, except for a tiny chip on one side—a mark I remembered from watching her cook, a little notch that made it unmistakably hers. The grain of the wood ran in gentle waves, and there was a faint scent of old maple and kitchen spices lingering on it. In that moment, the spoon seemed both an ordinary kitchen tool and a symbol of Grandmother’s authority, its presence as memorable as the discipline it delivered.

The first swat of the wooden spoon landed with a sharp, unmistakable crack, sending a jolt of heat through the thin fabric of my bathing suit. The sting was different from Nanny’s hand—deeper, more insistent, and it seemed to echo through my whole body. Grandmother’s movements were measured, not angry, but purposeful, each swat a reminder of her fear for my safety. The spoon struck again and again, each time making me flinch and gasp, my eyes brimming with tears. The world seemed to slow down, every sensation heightened: the coolness of the kitchen tiles under my bare feet, the roughness of the wooden spoon, the warmth of Grandmother’s hand steadying me, and the ache of embarrassment that flushed my cheeks.

I felt small and exposed, the sting of the spoon mingling with a deep sense of regret and shame. Yet, beneath it all, there was a strange comfort in Grandmother’s presence—her unwavering care, her insistence on teaching me right from wrong, even when it hurt. When she finished, she set the spoon aside and pulled me into a gentle hug, her arms strong and reassuring. I sobbed quietly against her, feeling the last of my resistance melt away in the safety of her embrace. Nanny stood nearby, silent but watchful, her own expression softening as she saw Grandmother’s tenderness.

The punishment was over, but the lesson lingered, etched into my memory as sharply as the sting on my skin. Grandmother’s love was fierce and protective, and in that moment, I understood that her discipline came from a place of deep care. The kitchen, with its sunlight and familiar smells, became a place of forgiveness and comfort, even as my bottom still smarted from the wooden spoon.

She took me upstairs, and prepared me for tea. When I said that I didn’t want to go, she told me that she understood, but that the whole family gathered at teatime, and I would have to be there.

Of course, grandmother told everyone at tea about what I had done.