MIAMI BEACH (CBSMiami) – Living in South Florida, going to the beach is a fun, relaxing, activity people love doing when they are not at work. Except for those with physical disabilities or paralysis who rely on a wheelchair. The sand makes it extremely difficult to maneuver and getting into the water is almost impossible without assistance. This is something Sabrina Cohen knows all to well. Cohen has been in a wheelchair since her early teens. Instead of resolving to never have fun on a beach again with her friends, she did something about it. She teamed up with the City of Miami Beach to help improve beach access for those with disabilities. On June 23, 2014 the Miami Beach City Commission voted unanimously to approve the land use of the public space (Allison Park) at 64th and Collins Avenue for the project. On Sunday Cohen, the Founder and President of the Sabrina Cohen Foundation (SCF), checked out the fruits of their labor first hand, the first fully adaptive beach and playground for our disabled residents and visitors.

In addition to the adaptive beach and playground, SCF plans to launch and operate a diverse menu of adaptive fitness and recreational programs and activities. There are also new beach wheelchairs which assist users getting into, and out of, the water along with plans for hand cycling on the boardwalk. It was emotional day for Cohen, who using the special wheelchair, was able to get into the ocean for the first time since she suffered a severe spinal cord injury in 1992 at the age of 14 from a car accident. The Sabrina Cohen Foundation (SCF) is a nationally recognized 501c3 nonprofit organization dedicated to funding cutting edge research and innovative therapies that will provide a better quality of life for individuals living with paralysis. In 1993, when I was 11 years old, my family went to Disney World. We piled into our station wagon -- my mother and father in front, my little sister and I in the back -- and set out from our home in rural Pennsylvania, driving two full days until we reached the town that Mickey built.

By the time we arrived at our resort, the anticipation was unbearable. But it was the afternoon, and not worth paying full ticket price for a half day of rides. So instead, we went to the pool at our resort. The first thing I did was run to the deep end and jump in, toes pointed, trying to touch the bottom. The pool wasn't as deep as I'd hoped, and I crushed my foot against the rough concrete. cosatto high chair weight limitI came up, choking and wailing; wheelchair lift for sale bchours later, my big toe was more swollen than I'd ever seen on anybody. wheelchair van rental massachusettsI couldn't walk on it at all. rocking chair for sale san antonio

I was certain it was broken. So the next day, we marched ourselves up to the guest services desk at Magic Kingdom, and requested a wheelchair for me. That was when I learned the tantalizing truth about Disney World's special disabled lines: Anybody can use them. And anybody -- not just "rich Manhattan moms" who can afford disabled guides -- can scam the system.tables and chairs kensington md My parents didn't have to provide any proof of my injury to rent a wheelchair at Disney. chair cover rental akron ohNo doctor's note required, no cast -- no one even asked me to take off my sneaker to show them the bruise. I don't remember if my parents had to pay a fee for the wheelchair; today, wheelchair renters at Disney World pay between $10 and $12 per day. Girls Only: The Secret Comedy Of Women Kirova Ballet Academy presents Dream and Dance

Dollhouse Dance Factory: Bring It! Live But I do remember getting in that first line. It was Splash Mountain, and on that hot summer day in Orlando, it seemed like the entire park was waiting to splash down and cool off. My dad pushed me toward the end of the public line, but a park employee redirected us around the side of the mountain. There, we found a much shorter line, with maybe three other families with wheelchair-bound members waiting. They put us on the ride first, before any of the other guests in the other queue snaking back out to the entrance. I was a kid who'd spent two days fighting carsickness to get to this place, and I thought this was awesome. Throughout my family's stay at Disney, we found a special line for guests in wheelchairs at every ride we went to, and a guest services kiosk offering wheelchairs in every park. At each ride, my dad would half-carry me as I limped to my seat on the coaster, while a Disney employee collected my wheelchair and made sure it was waiting for me at the exit.

We blew through those parks at least three times faster than your average guest. Privately, my parents joked that breaking my toe was the best thing that could've happened to us on vacation. But here's the thing: my toe wasn't broken. It was just really badly bruised, and it healed fast. By day three of our five day stay in Orlando, the swelling was down, and I could put pressure on my foot without wincing. By day four, I could walk without a limp -- it was still painful, but I could do it. And by day five, our last day at Disney, I didn't really need the wheelchair at all. But I wanted that wheelchair, and the access to which I'd become accustomed. I think we all wanted it, my parents and sister too, but their greed went unspoken. I was the one who pretended my toe was more than just a little stiff in order to get the wheelchair for that last day. My family spent our last day at Disney the same way we'd spent the first: at Magic Kingdom, the place I'd first discovered how easily anybody can get a wheelchair at Disney World.

And yes, I'll admit it: that day, my 11-year-old self scammed the system. I pretended to be injured in order to get that wheelchair. At first, it seemed like just a tiny lie, and with such an epic payoff; the lines for rule-abiding vacationers with two working legs that day were as long as I'd seen them all week. But then, we arrived at the Haunted Mansion. Maybe it's different now, but back then, the Disney employee took my wheelchair at the entrance to the front room of the ride. In order to get to the car, I had to make it down a long corridor on my own two legs. And I had to look convincingly broken while doing it. As usual, my dad helped me out of the chair. I leaned on him, trying to replicate the hobbling movements I'd made a few days earlier, when I really did need his support to get around. But I also realized how silly this whole situation was, and like the kid I was, I couldn't stop giggling about it. My dad was the first to realize the scene we were making, and barked at me under his breath with a harsh "Lean on me more."

That shut me up, and I pulled it together enough to look up and see an entire line of people -- tourists and Disney employees alike -- looking at us with disgust. I don't know if I can put into words exactly how ashamed I was at that moment. Two decades later, that scene is vivid in my memory. I think I was too young to fully appreciate how awful it was to pretend to need a wheelchair when you don't -- to understand, as much as any able person can, the difficulties of a life spent in a wheelchair and the way my behavior had disrespected those difficulties. I just remember feeling so embarrassed, so truly awful, and sorry to have dragged my father into the whole mess. When I think about it now, it feels almost like watching a particularly cringe-worthy episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, except it's starring my family, and also it's real, which makes it way, way less funny. To this day, my father and I have not spoken about it since. It was that bad. So when I read these recent reports of wealthy families who use disabled guides to get themselves into the short lines, I'm not shocked.