I remember as a small girl scouring the beach in Edmonds for shiny small rocks and shells, and the soft plopping sounds as I dropped each shell into my plastic bucket. Even broken shells would do! (Those were the days when it was all right to take the shells home.) I remember the relatives who visited every summer without fail from the Midwest. They loved riding the ferry, even if it were only to the opposite shore and back. Often in the late afternoon, the women packed up a casserole, a simple salad, and beverages to tote to the beach where we’d spread out our feast onto wind-worn picnic tables. My dad would join us once he returned from work. There we’d eat, laugh, talk and gaze out over the Sound. We'd sometimes make a game of counting the number of vehicles boarding the ferry. And what impressive ferries they were with their multiple decks and their green-and-white, sleek designs.
I remember my early teen years when my girlfriends and I’d walk to the beach during summertime. We’d spread out blankets, slather on cocoa butter, bake under the sun, and look for cute guys. With a briny breeze against our faces, the warmth radiating up from the sand, and the occasional wail of a train that rode the rails paralleling the beach, we were happy Beach Bums for the day. Later during high school, our crowd I often drove to the beach on warm summer evenings. We built beach fires that scented the air with the salty smell of driftwood. We strolled barefoot, feeling the gritty sand between our toes. Later we huddled around the fire to toast marshmallows and solve the world’s problems--or so we thought.
And a weekend campout on Whidby Island with my biology class resulted in several of us kids getting caught by an incoming tide. What an adventure finding our way out! (That scene appears in my second published book, Double Crossing, released by a German publisher many years ago.)
After I'd married, and our two sons were small, we took them to Edmonds often to visit their grandparents. The beach was always an important part of those visits. How the boys loved to dig in the sand--if we'd forgotten to take a bucket and shovel, they'd improvise by using shells as "scoopers." And whenever they'd hear the Amtrak whistle growing louder, they'd drop their "scoopers" and go running to get a good view of the train roaring by and to wave to the engineer, who would usually wave back!
My husband and I still visit Edmonds regularly. Though our immediate family is gone, some extended family and friends remain, and it’s fulfilling to connect with them. Yet a good part of our time is spent overlooking the beach and the ferry dock. There we love watching the ferry traverse the Sound, hearing the waves lapping gently against the beach, and seeing the rugged Olympic Mountains off to the west.
Yes, some things do indeed change, but not all things. And my memories are forever fixed in time. These are just a few of the evocative sensory details I aspire to bring to my writing.