You’ve probably gathered from my children’s paintings and poems that I love the ocean. Some of my earliest memories, in fact, are of trips to the beach…

For example, I recall running over to pop a “pretty purple bubble” at the age of two, which, unfortunately—for both the “bubble” and myself—turned out to be a Portuguese Man-O-War. Now for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of jellyfish, its sting is roughly the equivalent of battery acid being poured upon a raw nerve…so needless to say I was hurting. And, as this was the TexasGulfCoast in the mid-sixties, the accepted method of dealing with a jellyfish sting was to: (a)  “gut it up”; and (b) “put pee on it.” Fortunately, Mom—being the progressive type—doused my leg with vinegar instead, while Dad drove us to the doc. Beyond being glad that no one had to pour pee on my wounds, I don’t recollect much else about that trip…but I sure remember that jellyfish.

Fortunately, most of my childhood memories of the beach are of a gentler nature. Seeing anemones every bit as beautiful as flowers blossoming in the tide pools and clinging to the jetties. Feeding the gulls that seemed to flock in quicker than you could get the bread out of your hand. The sunsets, and the shells, and the folks out surfing (yes, Texas has surf…sometimes). Bonfires like red stars dotting the high-tide mark in the dusk. The hazes that seemed to come in the heat of the day and softened the distances like a sandy-hued fog banks. The crunch of a ’67 Mustang, or a ‘63 Plymouth, or some indeterminate station wagon rolling slowly across the sand…

In retrospect, it was an idyllic time, and each new day was filled with promise and wonder. And I hope my beach book recaptures a little of the marvel I felt—and still feel—every time I catch my first whiff of the ocean through an open car window.