There must be some good karma surrounding us these days. Leaving on the day a storm was blowing in, I made it over Tioga Pass before the first snowflake fell. Traveling back home, the same weather was expected. This time, I braved Donner Pass. Again, the winds of the storm pushed us up and over the gorgeous pass. The trees are starting to change color, while winds tossed the golden leaves around a bit. A beautiful day for a drive in the High Sierra’s.
So many parts of the trip come to mind, but the one I want to share is about some very old sea shells. My parents owned a beach house for many years. Setting as a harbor sentinel, the view was breathtaking. For over three decades the entire family would take turns using the place, and everyone has their personal and best take away memories. The Harbor House was, indeed, a special place.
Just like any beach house, people would find treasures on their walks along the shore and come back with sandy pockets bulging. It seems thirty years ago, it was more common to find shells on the beach than in this day and age. While some of the finds were really nice specimens, some were just broken pieces of a clam or mussel shell. Over time, the collection grew and grew.
Somehow, I ended up with a gallon zip lock bag of these shells. Through the years, they’ve been displayed in glass or wooden bowls. As a teacher, I’d take the bags to school and let the students sort them. Many little fingers have caressed the old shells. Kids were always amazed at the variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.
But.
Always, always, always, I felt they should be returned to the sea. Something was very wrong about keeping them to myself in a closet. How many other beach goers would love to find at least one shell on their daily walk? Maybe the sea might like to wash over them again, as she should have been doing all this time. These shells all came from the Central Pacific Coast of California. There were none from the romantic beaches of Waikiki or Tahiti. Nothing from Bora Bora or Thailand. These plain old Central Pacific Coast shells needed to be returned to their rightful owner.
The afternoon was winding down when I decided to go for my walk. Sauntering down the lonely beach, I slowly dropped a trail of shells as I inched along the shore. Rather like a trail of bread crumbs, they plopped into the moist sand one by one. By the time my bag was empty, I’d walked a very long way.
A long walk on a shoreline where an 8 year old boy loved body surfing in the 60’s. Paying $1.00 to rent a wet suit, he’d spend the day swimming until the daylight was nearly gone. Dusk would find him fishing with his dad from the pier, shining the light into the murky waters in search of sharks.
As he got older, his love for this little town never changed. A grainy black and white photo shows his last visit with his mom and dad. A high school letterman’s jacket spoke of his love for football. But the look on his face showed his love for the ocean and his favorite little town on the coast.
While the years passed and he became a man, he returned many times to this same beach. Looking out off the pier, his face was that of a man searching for answers to questions, his alone. Walking along the beach, his aching body wouldn’t allow him to ride the waves again, like he did when he was that young boy. His troubles would vanish when he visited the Pacific, be it on the mainland or in Hawaii. Near the water, he found his own best version of himself.
On one of his final days on earth, that man had one request that couldn’t be fulfilled. “I want to go back to the beach.” On this trip, I took his memory with me. He and I took a walk as I dropped the shells for us both.
On the return walk, something odd was occurring. The tide had creeped higher up the beach, and in doing so, was snatching up the shells. Disappearing into the seafoam, they tumbled back to the sea. I’m quite sure I heard the waves sigh a “Hello. Where’ve you been? Welcome Home!”
Some think it was silly to return the shells to their natural resting place. That’s okay. On that beach, in that moment in time, it was exactly what I needed to do to make peace with many of my own thoughts. The beach is a magical place, healing us all in different ways. I’m so lucky to have returned one more time.
Back in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, the winds howled last night. The first storm of autumn is upon us. Winterpast is ready to protect me from the elements, while Oliver waits for me on his last morning of puppy camp. Doggie kisses and wiggles will remind me I’m back home in the place I love so much. Although a part of me remains forever at the beach, for me, Home Means Nevada.