At 12:38 pm on a sunny Sunday earlier this year, my Tide Chart showed the tide at -0.3 feet, low enough for tide-pooling. I spend most Sundays with my California grandson, walking, playing card games, tennis, bicycling, or just hanging out. That Sunday we hung out at Shell Beach, 3 miles south from Jenner at the mouth of the Russian River, north of San Francisco.
Each California beach has its own distinct geology. Shell Beach is dotted with a collection of boulders up to 60 feet across, but mostly around 2 to 8 feet with a color variety reflecting the incredibly complex geology of our state.
My grandson and I explored some of the few tidepools — Shell Beach is not a rock shelf — hidden within the boulder field. He jumped lightly across the rock tops as I gingerly stepped up and down, often holding the side of a nearby rock for stability.
As I often do in these situations, I thought about my childhood where I fearlessly jumped from rock to rock on the headlands between Sydney beaches, not knowing where my next footstep would land until I was in the air from the last. I loved the thrill, the danger, the uncertainty, the physicality — matched later in life by skiing half-out-of-control down steep moguls in California and Utah.
My grandson was out of sight when I sat down on a chair sized rock in a sandy spot and summoned back those delicious childhood feelings. My grandson soon appeared and sat on a nearby boulder.
I told him where my mind had been wandering and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I relive my childhood by watching you.”
He looked into my eyes, reached his arm across the sand and took my hand in his. He didn’t say a word, just gazed at me — for what felt like an eternity.
He was 12.
I welcome your comments or suggestions.
Thank you for visiting,
me, Barry Phegan
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