Driftwood fort on the beach
photo courtesy of Jennifer
Rowan
When I was in high school, my girlfriend's family used to go car camping at Siltcoos every June right after school let out. This was before the advent of "recreational vehicles", and once we parked the old green-and-cream Volkswagen bus, out came several big canvas tents almost tall enough for us to stand up in. The adults shared one tent and the teenagers usually crammed into another big tent. I think there was supposed to be one tent for the boys and one for the girls, but as I recall we would stay up very late and just sleep wherever we ended up.
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Driftwood fort on the beach |
Mornings were chilly, full of ravens croaking and the distant sound of the waves. My friend's parents were usually up before us, tending a coffee pot over a small fire. For breakfast there would be oatmeal or bacon and pancakes, or maybe toast—typical breakfast fare, with the added fillip of a slightly smokey taste.
After breakfast, we would make the long trek over dunes to the windy beach. We were always on the lookout for wild strawberries, even though at that time of year finding one or two ripe ones in the whole week was miraculous. Once on the beach, we would often skinny-dip in the cold Pacific surf, and then run up into the dunes to lie sheltered from the breeze while working on our tans. Only rarely did we see any motorized vehicle in the dunes there. We were in a private, hot, sunny, sandy paradise of our own, where we could tell stories, doze, read, or just talk desultorily.
I first read Tom Wolfe's Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test at Siltcoos beach, lying in a warm tent in the sleepy afternoon. I also first read Emma there, and Far From the Madding Crowd. I wrote in my journal, talked secrets with my girlfriends, hung out with my boyfriend, learned to play strip poker, and discovered the joys of box macaroni and s'mores.
One foggy morning I had walked a long way down the beach alone. It's always my habit to beachcomb, so I was looking down as I walked, watching for pretty shells and rocks. As I lifted my gaze for a moment, I suddenly saw a round green object quite a way down the beach from me. I couldn't believe my eyes! I looked all around. No one was in sight, but I ran as fast as I could towards the largest green glass float I had ever seen, washed up on the beach in perfect condition. Over a foot in diameter, it was pitted a bit, and had some shellfish attached which had to be cleaned off when they began to smell, but it was whole, and beautiful. I still have it, in my bedroom where I see it every day.
My friends and I were dreamers in our late teens. Some of those dreams came true. My boyfriend used to mock himself by saying he would be a famous televangelist, or saint, and preach to multitudes. After trying twice to be an engineer, he is now a minister, though I don't think his church has been visited by the cameras, and his name is unknown to the multitudes. Some of the dreams we had then have not come true. Maybe they never could. My girlfriend and I used to talk about taking a summer to live on the beach. We would live in driftwood forts, and cook our food over beach fires. We would eat off the big clam shells we found everywhere, and be beachcombers, maybe waitressing a bit for money—but I think in our dream we didn't need much money. We would drink summer wine out of the beautiful swirled blue-green Mexican glasses I had bought in the mountains one day—glasses that looked like the sea itself. We would read, swim, walk, and write.
My friend and I have busy lives now. We've never spent another summer week together since the week after high school graduation. We live in different states, and seldom see each other. She has children, and a career working to make the world a better place, which keeps her stressed and on the run. I too have work to do, and a back which might not benefit from even one night in a sleeping bag on the sand. Still I dream that somehow, some day, we will find time to spend together again. On a warm summer beach without rain, we'll find or build a sturdy driftwood fort, with a log for a table and clam shells for dishes. We'll drink red wine by candlelight, and talk as we walk by the starlit sea. We'll write poetry, sing, dress in salt-stained gypsy velvets, and dance on the bright morning sands....just as we dreamed in those seawind summers long ago.