We crossed the post-stamp parking lot, dodging surfboards and waving at children. The sand crept up the concrete ramp as if it was trying to escape the beach. Walking along the surf, we got as close as we could without getting our feet wet. I gestured to the jutting sandstone rocks that towered over the water, telling you about my trips here as a child. The dune never seemed to diminish in size, even as I grew.
I wondered how it appeared through your eyes. I could recall the taste of Oregon summers; blackberries plucked from bushes and clam chowder served in sourdough bread bowls. Without all that background, how would the coast of my childhood compare to your own sun-kissed Atlantic summers?
I promised the end of the hike just around the bend. When we crested the hill, we emerged through a handful of trees to the lookout point. We stood together, my back pressed into you, and watched the waves crash against the pale red and brown rocks.
You pointed to a smaller rock, at the base of the huge sea stack, questioning where it had gone. We yelped when we realized that it wasn’t a rock, but a whale. Hands shielding our focused eyes, we stood for ages, attempting to count a pod of whales roaming in the water below. In all my years visiting, I had never seen whales on that beach before.
You emptied your pockets and I carefully stowed each item as we prepared to descend the dune. At my encouragement, you ran down the slope, allowing gravity and sand to propel your body toward the beach waiting below. We laughed like kids, like I had as a kid in that same place doing the same thing so many years ago.