Arrowhead Beach

I had one of those days when I woke up and instinctively knew that something was going to happen. The realization settled behind my eyelids, in that place where you know the origins of bloodshot and red veins find maturity, where dreams rest before attaching themselves to waking reality.

I don’t know what pulled me out of bed and into the car so quickly, but soon I was grasping a mug of steaming coffee and away I went. It is supposedly 65.5 miles to our beach cabin on Camano Island. Funny how that calculation is in my head after all these years. I can still hear my dad say, “Won’t be long now kids…it’s exactly one hour door-to-door.” As I grew older and was able to test his theory myself, I found that 65.5 miles put me in a neighborhood that I wasn’t familiar with and certainly not at anyone’s door that I wanted to visit. Had the earth shifted or had my father been playing tricks on us all of those years?

I have been told there are two seasons in Seattle…one for road construction and one without. It appears we have entered the former as I am detoured away from my destination along strawberry fields where I once found employment, and tired farmlands that my ancestors toiled before they eventually abandoned the land and died. They were strong, hardy Norwegians, leaving their homes perched high above the fjords and catching a boat for America. Few could speak English and some never learned, but they stuck close together, keeping their tendency to be difficult amongst themselves.

The dead end road leading down to Arrowhead Beach is narrow and makes sharp unexpected turns. Toward the end of the road the pavement seems to drop off from underneath us and the trees vanish, giving way to a small glimpse of the sea below. I remember how my brother would ask my dad to turn off the motor and we would coast down the hill with increasing acceleration until we reached the bottom, and then he would quickly turn the car back on and slam on the brakes to make the hairpin turn toward the row of little cabins. I never did find that quite as fun as the male population of our family.

As we pulled into the driveway my parents remained in the car, surveying the damage of our place after another brutal winter and the exposure to salt air. They would first make mention how the grass needed mowing and then how the house could use a fresh coat of paint. Rarely did I participate in the evaluation of flaws as I was usually already heading for the seawall.

The house would need airing. There would be a musty smell and odor of decaying animals that had found their way into a trap. All doors would be opened and the heavy woolen drapes pulled to the side to expose the salt-streaked windows. It was then that we could assess our heirlooms…the wooden boat on the mantel that my grandfather carved, the totem pole that we found floating and restored, the ancient collection of movie magazines and the fishing poles hanging from the box beam ceiling. My mother would take a wet sponge to the refrigerator and wipe the dead bees and flies from the windowsill. My dad would turn on the water main and unlatch the storage locker that held all of our possessions…our bikes, the old fashion washer machine that leaped across the floor with each spin cycle, the croquet set and tackle boxes. Within a few hours we were up and running for the summer.

After all these years Arrowhead Beach never surprises me. It is like returning to a comfortable lover. The familiar sight of old fisherman dragging their wooden boats to shore with the day’s catch icing on the floorboard. There are always a few buoys trapped on the shore waiting for the current to change and carry them out to sea so they can once again dance with the whitecaps. The tide flats seemed to stretch forever, like a borderless nation. Hovering offshore, a small sea lion watches, his shiny black head bobbing along the surface while the gulls gather. We watch them circle and caw, as if to question the magnitude of the disruption that we will bring to their coastline. The clouds, billowing overhead like warm taffy cream shift ever so often, allowing us a view of the snow-capped marvel of Mt. Baker. In the afternoon, a few beachcombers collect their towels and baskets of toys and scurry home along the seawall leading to their brightly colored cottages. The scene seems surreal, like a Norman Rockwell painting of Indian summer.

The smell of salt water fills my lungs as the memories of childhood finds me again. My older brother and I running along the ledge, letting the afternoon swells spray our bodies. Our tender feet, still virgin to the pointy rocks and sharp-edged shells needing the toughening that only summer walks combing the shore for treasures could bring. We flinched with each step until we reached the wet sand of the flats that squished through our toes bringing cool relief to our throbbing feet. My father would maneuver the rusty push mower out of the shed. The sound of the blades clipping across the cement driveway made the sparrows leave their nests in the rafters, swooping toward our heads like enemy fighter jets. Although my father has a gentle nature, he can be skittish under attack. He would curse the sparrows and with a quick swipe of the broom, he would knock their nests down where it would explode onto the pavement below. The hose in place and the water turned on, my father would let us spray away the remains of egg yolks, feathers and tangled twigs. It saddens me to think of that today, but we did what we were told and soon forgot as the mess washed clean and the cracked asphalt warmed and dried in the sun.

It would take a moment to assemble the many children that came back to the island each year, like molting birds. The kids seemed to scatter from behind all the cracks and crevasses and appear at our front door. This would begin our pirating and endless hours of renegade. And on those warm days and nights we learned to believe in life and love one another. We debated our favorite Beatle, we smoked driftwood as if Cuban cigars, caught fish and drank concoctions made from my parent’s liquor cabinet. 

We knew all the folks on the beach and the gossip that followed them. As kids we weren’t particularly interested because we liked them all, except for the old woman who lived at the end of the road…Ms. Emelia Tucker. She crept along the beach on crooked legs as if a sea urchin herself.  We were specifically told to leave her alone because she had a short fuse.

It has been twenty years since those childhood memories formed. And yet, sparrows still circle me upon my arrival, and the house smells musty. There are bees on the windowsills and the refrigerator needs wiping down, but I ignore it all and walk outside.

The morning hours always brings small children to the beach. Mothers carrying large faded straw baskets full of plastic utensils, snacks and juice in anticipation of a tantrum. They apply their loved ones with exuberant amounts of sunscreen and fasten life saving devices over their slippery bodies. As the northerly wind kicks up, the sunbathers scurry home to shower off the day’s allotment of sand and assess the sun damage. Soon after the beach empties, an old woman appears down the whitewashed path leading from the row of Cape Cod houses. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was not as scary as I remember. Ms. Emelia Tucker, a little shorter version perhaps, inched her way toward me. Of course I had no intention of staring at her so I made my eyes watch an aluminum fishing boat with an old Evenrude engine that skipped a beat like a malfunctioning pacemaker.

“I remember you. Aren’t you the Boreson girl?” Ms. Tucker said.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said.

The words floated in the air with nowhere to attach themselves. We turned our attention to the tide flats where a young boy was stabbing a jellyfish with a sharp stick. The gulls circled, complaining profusely.

“Wonderful birds, the gulls. They stay close to the shore where they sense the mystery and magic,” She said.

“That’s an interesting perspective but that's giving them a lot of credit. As far as I'm concerned they're just scavengers.” I said.

“Well, there’s more to everything than meets the eye. You just have to be aware. Stop trusting others opinions and create your own awareness,” She said.  “Remember how you were scared of me as a child? I couldn’t get a peep out of you.” She said.

“Ah, well, I was just a kid,” I said.

“Yes, that you were…and a conniving one at that! Don’t think I didn’t see you sneak into my yard and take the apples off my tree!” And then she laughed.

“So you weren’t mad?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. Why would I be mad about a silly thing like that?” She said.

“I don’t know…I guess we were told to leave you alone.” I said.

“It’s a small community and people talk. I’m sure I must seem like an odd duck to most but I assure you, I’m harmless. Besides, what is a hunchbacked woman in her 90’s going to do?” The old woman took a deep breath of sea air. She let it out slowly and stared at me. “You see my dear, most people don’t understand me. They find my life foolish because I’ve spent the last fifty years on a quest for the meaning of life. Someday I’ll tell you the story if you’d like to hear it.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I said.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then meet me at my house in an hour…you know the one with the sweet tasting apples.” She smiled, and with that, she turned and leaning against her whittled cane, she headed for home. She was quite a vision --her skirt blowing in the breeze, her leg’s spread wide for balance and her knee-hi nylons creeping down her bony calves leaving red bands of skin exposed to the sunlight.

I was there in an hour, but I have to admit there was a part of me that was brainwashed by my childhood. It felt creepy to knock on her door. It took her awhile but she eventually opened it and let me in. She had combed her white hair and put on a sweater. In her hand was a faded piece of paper.

“Sit down dear. Anywhere you like.” I searched the room of worn furniture and picked a chair with matching hand crocheted dollies on the armrest. As I sat, she passed me the paper.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is the beginning of my exploration. My grandmother gave it to me.” she said. “Read it and I think you will understand." She fell backwards into a recliner and her feet shot into the air. The free fall did not seem to surprise her so I assumed that this was her normal assault on a chair.

It was a letter dated January 15, 1959. It began,

“My dearest Emelia,

Believe me, this is not my first option for renewing our acquaintance. By the time you read this letter, the attorney will have completed his fiduciary duty and informed you of my assets, or lack of them as you have discovered. Except for my temperamental cat Helen, and my leather travel case full of journals, I have accumulated only knowledge. Although it may seem rather pathetic to be without worldly possessions, I assure you, I am rich among corpses. My only regret in life is that I have not had the good fortune of watching you grow up and help guide you in your life’s purpose. But, of course, after the unfortunate incident with your father, God rest his soul, my wish to be reacquainted with you seemed as insurmountable as the disease that dines on my flesh.

The last correspondence I had with your father was on my fiftieth birthday. On the evening of my party, a friend had fifty black balloons delivered to the house, sending the entire party into fits of laughter. Dreadful experience, really. I can still see the young boy nearly airlifted from the helium as he released them from the confines of the delivery truck. He made his way through the hordes of well-wishers who slapped him on the back in a congratulatory fashion as if the youngster had invented practical jokes. The boy tied the balloons to the back of the kitchen chair and exited through the screen door.

The party was in full swing, cocktail glasses sloshing about, ice cubes clinking merrily in empty glasses all too quickly refilled and the continuous shrieks of the alcoholics at play. The balloons, swaying with the rhythm of the party, seemed so symbolic of the choices one could make on that momentous occasion.

Without the slightest hesitation, I untied them from the chair and held the strings tight, maneuvering them out into the moonlit night and past the clothesline, quite a feat in itself, and then releasing them into the sky. I watched them pass by the silhouette of poplar trees and up into the atmosphere until they were no longer in sight. What a glorious moment that was. I felt like I could fly myself.

In a state of euphoric bliss, I returned to the festivities. Having spent many years with the same crowd, I was quite confident that no one would notice my sudden departure, having no real need for a guest of honor. I grabbed my purse and drove into the night never giving a thought to my level of sanity or the roaring follies that I left behind. It was the last time I was to see your father, my only son. And you, my sweet granddaughter, were just a young girl curled up at the top of the stairs in pretty peach pajamas watching. The years have passed and I can only imagine what my family has told you about my apparent reckless behavior. I am quite certain that you have been warned and instructed to erase any notion you may entertain of pursuing my whereabouts. So, as my body is laid to rest, it is now I who must come in search of you, dear Emelia.

As I lay in bed, I ask the kind nurse to write this letter. I want you to know that at this stage of my life there is nothing left to conquer. Every emotion has been savored, every conviction moves through me like a holy man. Few pleasures have I turned down. My heart has waltzed with passion, my mind remains lost in dreams of visionaries, my body has marveled at the creation of children and my eyes have wept at their passing. Although I am wiser, my weary soul cannot bear another spoonful of life’s truth.

Regardless of the unfortunate circumstance that manifested between your father and myself, I felt it a shame to be buried with my discoveries capsulated amidst the red velvet lining of my resting place. My search for the meaning  of life has filled me with great joy and priceless lessons. I've traveled around the globe picking up clues like I was on a well-organized scavenger hunt. It seemed as if someone or something was guiding me all the way. Every well placed intimation released an explosion of new awareness. I wrote it down...each clue to the puzzle is in my cherished journals.  

There is no replacement for the forty years that has escaped us but through my writings you will know me. And so, dear Emelia, my gift to you lies in my journals, tucked within the pages of my memoirs. At your leisure, please read them. Hopefully they will intrigue you enough to go on your own journey.

From my deathbed,

Camille

I dropped the letter into my lap and looked up at Mrs. Tucker.

To be continued….