Put Jelly On Your Shoulder

I have a memory of the beach which links to a memory of the mountains. The former was while I was a wee one approximately the age of three. The latter was around the age of ten. I had always been taken to the beach as an infant, none of which I remember but of which I am told. My mom's mom used to live there. I remember walking with my parents, them holding loads of beach stuff and I walking next to them some early summer day. We had just left the car and my view of the limitless ocean and sky which must have met each other at some point was lodged in my mind. When we walked a couple of hundred feet from the parking lot there was a concrete sidewalk for bikers and roller-bladers of all kinds. Upon reaching this area my parents stopped walking to allow the bikers to roll by. As they came closer I walked right out in front of one and was run over. It must've been quite painful, but pain isn't something you can particularly describe or quantify. As in a doctor's office where they ask you if the pain is a one or a ten. The man who ran into me was very angry, and scolded not only my parents but me about the accident. I remember my parent's resentment of him well. This is the only memory I have of that day at the beach. When I was ten, my family and I were driving through the mountains to Lake Arrowhead to either visit my dad's parents or go to a UCLA alumni camp. We stopped on the way up to take a look at the view of Los Angeles below. Upon getting out of the car, I started to have a panic attack, fearing that my fearless sister would accidentally fall off the side of the mountain, never to be heard from again. I started screaming and yelling and generally freaking out but that did nothing to stop my sister, though she later claims that that was when she knew I cared about her, and that it most likely made her safer when going to the edge. So in turn I closed my eyes and looked away at the same time like an ostrich would.