Summer Break: Day 1
Another beach adventure on the Pacific Coast
Yesterday it was 104˚F where I live. We only went outside once, for about an hour in the late morning. After that it was too unbearably hot to participate in any of our usual go-to activities. No one wanted to hike or jump on the trampoline. I watered the garden in the early morning and by the time we got back from swimming lessons the dirt was completely dry, as if I’d never even watered at all. The heat makes me panic a little bit inside. I do not do well in the heat and basically need to avoid it at all costs, so when the temperature reaches anything over 100˚F, I must to be inside a cool building or close to water. However, our options in that department are limited, as we do not have a pool and our local river, although beautiful and filled with swimmers, is notoriously unsanitary.
Our favorite escape is the coast. On their first day of summer break, I took the children to the beach. It was a warm day and we left later than we intended to so by the time we got out there the parking lot was already full at the beach where we have a parking pass. The other beaches are free but waves are more intense farther up the coast and the parking more competitive. We got lucky though and pulled right into a parking spot right near the path down to the beach. In typical Pacific coast fashion, it was blustery and considerably colder outside than it seemed to be from inside the vehicle. Although I have lived here for almost forty years, it still catches me off guard sometimes, especially when it is so hot everywhere else in the county. This was one of those times. Fortunately, I had failed to drop off a large bag of clothing donations the week before, so everyone was able to find something warm in there. Now properly bundled, we made our way down to claim our spot on the sand.
I wrestled up our beach tent while it made several escape attempts disguised as a parachute, while the children splashed in the shallow creek that connects to the ocean. Of course, it didn’t take my youngest more than ten seconds before he fell face-first into the water and emerged a wet, sandy beast. And, of course he was wearing the only sweater I brought along for him, not to mention dripping copious amounts of wet, sandy muck inside the now significantly less dry and cozy beach tent I had just prepared. Ah, well. My daughter, on the other hand, spent the entire day in her yellow bikini, seemingly impervious to the elements, skipping in and out of the creek like a sunbeam shimmering on the water. Only my oldest, copper curls asunder, managed to avoid completely submerging his entire body in the water, as he was studiously focused on building a driftwood bridge across the creek and couldn’t be bothered.
From the place we had set up our camp, the ocean was far away, its thunderous intensity only a low rumble in the distance. We hiked up sand dunes, weaving around the tall beach grass, into those magical cocoons of silence where the wind can’t reach. We explored driftwood structures, some ruins, some newly constructed. Palaces and temples carved by the saltwater tongue of the sea. We found sand dollars shattered like a mermaid’s piggy bank and opalescent mussel shells hiding rainbows in their crescent moon curves. We saw meadows of pink and yellow flowering succulents embroidered across the sand, and an art installment reminiscent of driftwood dominos. Standing where the freshwater flows into the salty ocean, with the expansive and tremendously blue sky above, we were all content in our own way. Everywhere we looked there was something to be mesmerized by. Afterwards, covered in sand but content, we gathered everything up and hiked back up to the car, destined for ice cream shop.