Does the World Really Need Another Beach Book? (Yes!)

By Suzanne Kamata

I have always loved going to the beach. I grew up near Lake Michigan, and while my family did not live on the shore, I had friends who did. I loved hanging out at their houses, where we’d watch sunsets, hold bonfires on the beach, or just go for long walks, scuffing through the sand. I also loved listening to the waves just before I went to sleep.

Of course Michigan is cold in winter, and when I was a child, the lake froze. Like many Michiganders, we often traveled to the beaches of Florida during winter vacation to escape the chill. I have happy memories of beachcombing for shells and sharks’ teeth, and tossing fish to pelicans while visiting my grandparents in Bradenton.

When I was sixteen, my family moved to Lexington, South Carolina. Since we lived in the center of the state, it was a two-or-three-hour drive to the ocean. I often drove to the beach with my friends, and I have vacationed there with my family as an adult. Thus, I have spent a significant amount of time at various beaches in the state.

I now live in Japan, about seven miles from a beach, where I like to go for walks in winter, and swim in summer. I love to watch the windsurfers navigate the waves.

When I’m not at the beach, I love reading about the beach. I discovered early on that there is practically a genre: books set at the beaches of South Carolina. More often than not, the main character inherits a beach house from a beloved aunt who had no children of her own. More often than not, the characters are all white. Families converge, and drama ensues.

At one point, I made a conscious decision to never set a novel in coastal South Carolina. There were already so many books on the shelves! How could I possibly compete? What could I possibly say? However, after my brother died, seized with grief and nostalgia, I dug up a photo of him building a sand castle with my daughter, who is deaf, at Myrtle Beach. My children, who are half-Japanese, and I, were staying at my Indian American sister-in-law’s family’s timeshare. We were a mix of cultures and abilities. I couldn’t think of any beach books that reflected my family’s diversity, so I decided to write one. 

The result is Cinnamon Beach. While I realize that there is an actual beach by that name in Florida, my title refers to the name of a beach house at an unnamed beach near Charleston, South Carolina – a nod to the multicultural mix and skin tones of the people who spend their summers there.

There may be a lot of beach books out there, but as far as I can tell, the demand for them is still strong. I believe there are many more stories set in the sand waiting to be told.

—

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Michigan, and is most recently from South Carolina, but she has lived in Japan for over thirty years. Her previous novels include Losing Kei (Leapfrog Press, 2008), which was translated into Russian, and The Baseball Widow (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2021), winner of a gold IPPY award. In addition, she is the author of the short story collections, The Beautiful One Has Come (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2011) and River of Dolls and Other Stories (Penguin Random House SEA, November 2024). 

CINNAMON BEACH, Suzanna Kamata

A DEEP SOUTH MAGAZINE Summer 2024 READING LIST Selection

CINNAMON BEACH is a multicultural tragicomedy, told from three female perspectives, in which an American writer living in Japan returns to South Carolina to scatter the ashes of her brother while trying to maintain the “perfect-family” facade she created from afar, and support her Indian American sister-in-law who wants a future which might upset everyone. Sparks fly at an impromptu book-signing when the author reconnects with her college friend, now a famous African American country music star, and her daughter who is deaf finds ways to communicate with a secret first-love.

ADVANCE REVIEWS

“Suzanne Kamata has masterfully captured the emotional nuances of love, loss and family secrets. Cinnamon Beach is as rich as it is deep. I loved it.” —Emma Grey, author of The Last Love Note

“It’s hard to describe how much I loved Cinnamon Beach. It is a five-star page-turner showing the complex lives of people living in a complex modern world.” —Diane Hawley Nagatomo, author of The Butterfly Cafe

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An excerpt from Cinnamon Beach

Olivia had cruised along I-26 from the capital to the coast of South Carolina more times than she could count, but this time was different. Back in the day, she had ridden shotgun in a girlfriend’s convertible, with a passel of other co-eds in the back, on their way to spring break and beer and boys at the beach. Or, another time, it had been in her yellow VW Beetle, on the way to see the do-gooder surfer guy she thought she couldn’t live without, the one who spent the summer at Myrtle Beach and took her to that place where they tossed their clam shells onto a sawdust-covered floor. Then there was that excursion to Hilton Head Island with Masahiro, before they got married, the one where he freaked out when he saw an alligator sunbathing on the golf course green. Later, she’d driven to Charleston for an academic conference where she’d presented her paper on Aiken-born writer Gamel Woolsey. And then there had been that trip to promote her own short story collection – her first ever book tour! When their kids were small, they’d met up at the Isle of Palms with her brother Ted and his wife Parisa and their daughter and two sets of grandparents — the good old days. Olivia felt an arrow pierce her heart. This time, it was just Olivia and her two teenagers in a rental car. A minivan. She wasn’t used to driving such a big car. In Japan, she drove what they called a Kei car, which was small enough to navigate the narrow roads in their neighborhood.

“Why don’t you drive faster?” Yuto asked from the back seat. He’d been more or less silent for the first hour of the trip, busy filming roadside novelties with his smartphone, which he’d later post on Instagram or Snapchat or TikTok or whatever – she couldn’t keep up. 

“Why?” Oliva asked, irritated. 

“Because everybody’s passing you,” Yuto said.

As if to prove his point, a massive semi whooshed past them, followed by three more cars, all made in Japan. She glanced at the speedometer and confirmed that she was, indeed, driving the speed limit.

Olivia had read somewhere that earlier in the pandemic, the highways were so tantalizingly devoid of traffic that many drivers could not resist pressing down on the gas pedal. The highway patrol had raked in the bucks from the speeding tickets they’d issued, back when just about every other business was gasping for breath. But Olivia was used to driving slowly. Also, to be honest, she wasn’t in a hurry to get where they were going. To be completely honest, she was struggling with the desire to turn the car around and go back to Columbia.

She looked in the rearview mirror to check on Sophie. As expected, she was engrossed in her manga, oblivious to the scraps of blown-out tires and English-language billboards on the side of the road urging her to repent. Her hearing aids were in her lap.

“Anyone need to stop?” she asked. “Looks like there’s a service station up ahead.”

She thought she heard a murmur of agreement, and she wanted to use the restroom anyway, and take a moment before hurtling on into this dreaded not-a-vacation, so she eased onto the next exit ramp.

Once the car was parked, she leaned over the back seat and tapped Sophie’s knee. She signed “bathroom?” – one hand making a “W. C’ like an OK sign with an open O. Olivia was sure that it was an obscene gesture in some European country – Italy, maybe – just as the Japanese sign for “older brother” meant “fuck you” in America. 

Sophie nodded and pushed the thick manga off of her lap. They went in together, Olivia waiting outside the bathroom while her daughter went in first. When she came out, Olivia handed her a couple of crumpled dollar bills. “Buy a snack or a drink,” she signed.

Inside the bathroom, she stood in front of the mirror, far enough back to take in at least half of herself. Her shalwar kameez with the Parisa! label stitched in back was not as wrinkled as she’d expected. This one, in a Palmetto print with a nod to the South Carolina state tree, had a touch of polyester. She was wearing it as kind of conciliatory gesture toward her sister-in-law, the eponymous Parisa!

A few years back, Parisa had come up with the idea of marketing the traditional tunic and pants combo of Southeast Asian women to ladies who lunch in the South. Instead of stitching them up into the usual jewel-toned silks and cottons of her parents’ India, she chose Liberty of London florals, playful prints, and alternative materials, such as paper. The “pajama pant suits” had taken off locally, and then nationally, after a few significant influencers had posted themselves dressed in Parisa! on their social media. The outfits were classic, flattering to just about every body type, and they were super comfortable. Now, Parisa’s fan base included female politicians, writers, and talk show hosts. Parisa! had become a household name.

Olivia smoothed down the front of her tunic with the palms of her hands, then swiped at the smudges of mascara under her eyes with a pinky. There was a dent between her eyebrows. If only she had been injected with Botox! If only she were ten years younger! She sighed, turned away from the mirror, finished her business and went back to the car.

Yuto and Sophie were in the back seat, buckled up and ready to go. Sophie had popped open a can of Diet Coke.

“What’d you get?” Olivia asked.

Yuto held up a bag of fried pork rinds. “Want some?”

“Uh, no thanks.” Sure, Olivia had lived in the South, but she’d never become quite that Southern.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers