Not more than 10 days after I wrote about growing up on the
beaches of Northern California, I was forced to eat my words.
With Martin in Norway and abalone season open, my brother
and I drove up to Sea Ranch to spend the weekend with the family. The road there, Highway 1, was exactly how I
remembered it…steep, windy and only for stomachs made of stone…thirty three
years old and I apparently still get car sick.
Thankfully due to some unexpected roadwork, we were stopped long enough
for me to pull it together before we had to pull it over for me to lose my
lunch and dinner.
The weather Saturday was expected - windy and cold - so I
hunkered down on the couch to read a book.
And dinner of abalone was, as always, fantastic.
Everything seemed as it should be…but then Sunday
arrived. The day was sunny and warm…and
seeing a rare opportunity, we headed down to the beach with Cassidy and Blake. In less than ten minutes, I realized where I
had gone wrong in my previous post. My
memories of the beaches weren’t necessarily of my childhood, but of my awkward
teen years when all I wanted to do was lie on the beach, get some sun and
ideally meet a hot young surfer (who would ultimately ignore me- the pale-white
awkward teenage girl with bad skin and a uni-brow).
Seeing Cassidy and Blake that day made me love the local
beaches that much more. Those two were
captivated by the tide pools, the hermit crabs, the star fishes, sea anemones, and
the seals sunning on the rocks and loved collecting shells, popping dried
seaweed like bubble wrap and dipping their toes in the water. They could not have had more fun!
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