Missing the Beach

Until three years ago, I spent my entire life within an hour (sometimes less) of the beach. I didn’t miss the beach the first summer, or the second summer, or even the third summer. Today? I would love to go agate hunting, or go climb rocks in search of tidepools in the Sound. I even miss the smell of rotting seaweed along the beaches in Birch Bay. Well, maybe I don’t miss Birch Bay and the flies and yellow jackets swarming on the drifts of rotting seaweed, but I miss the rest of it!

Usually, when I write, I have a lime green polka-dotted mug that I drink coffee from, but I’ve switched cups. This one just arrived from Anthropologie. I have a very similar teapot given to me by three of my closest friends almost a decade ago. Who knew that, one day, I would have a cup to go with it? I think this is a very appropriate vessel shift as the hero in the new book is, like me, a coastal dweller who is forced to live inland. I need my little reminder of home. I wonder what object he keeps close – should figure that out.

I love the inscription in the bowl of the cup because it reminds me of every ballad about the ocean twining some sailor/whaler/explorer/press-ganged gentleman from his sweetheart. I used to love the sailor and his sweetheart songs: Dark-Eyed Sailor, My Johnny Was a Shoemaker, Peggy-O (sort of), Farewell to Tarwathie, Lowlands of Holland (Australia), Lady Franklin’s Lament…I could go on and on. Love, love, love them.

The downside of the inscription: a touch of poor grammar. The words should read “my love and me,” but I think I’ll overlook this. Let this little slip-up remind me to avoid passive voice and ending sentences with prepositions.

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