It's 5:00 in the morning on a Monday in June, and two 40-something men who haven't seen each other in years have traveled hundreds of miles to meet at this beach. To understand why they're here, we have to go back 30 years to simpler times ... In the early 1970's, this stretch of undeveloped beach was the unofficial playground for boys from our Normandy Park neighborhood. Less than a mile from home, it was only accessible by way of steep rugged trails that assured our parents would never drop in to see what we were doing. Before we were old enough to drive, we spent long summer days here spearfishing, swimming, hiking, digging clams and building rafts. The rafts we made from found materials: driftwood, scraps of rope, nails pulled from rotting boards and pounded into other boards with a rock or a diving knife. Many of these contraptions fell apart before they ever set to sea, beaten to pieces by small waves crashing on the shore. Most of the others crumbled beneath our feet out on the Sound, leaving us gasping in the 46-degree water. We dreamed of building a raft sturdy enough to take us all the way across to Vashon or Maury Island, but the closest we ever came were the times we swam a mile or so back to shore after abandoning ship. The other side of the Sound was less than three miles away, but we never set foot over there, never even made it halfway across. And now, after decades of growing up in far-away places with no beaches or driftwood, Alan and I have returned to try one more time ... click here to continue ... |
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