Oregon Writing Project

Assignment #1

Gladys Campbell

Perfect Days

Life in Southern California was bright, warm and easy going. If, at times, it were a little too warm, we would go to the beach for dinner. It was never too hot at the coast. All five of us children would get our suits on and wait for Dad to get home from work.

Mom would pack hot dogs and beans with all the extras. She did this easily, cheerfully. She loved getting out of the house. She loved being "Mom" and taking care of our needs.

We would pile into the old white Rambler station wagon, fight over the window seat and wait for our sister Shirley. She was the oldest and always the last to get into the car. Free of seat belts, in a time before sunscreen and other safety concerns, we drove the mile to the beach.

As soon as the car came to a stop we would excitedly scramble down the big boulders, put there to prevent continued erosion of the sand. My brother Jim and I, just a year apart in age, would race across the hot sand to the cool water, not stopping until it was deep enough to dive under a wave.

Dad had taught us at an early age to ride the waves. We watched the swells and positioned ourselves for the breaking point. I might surf all afternoon to catch a perfect wave. My timing, the power of the wave, the shape of the curl and its proximity to other waves, all created a swift ride to the shore. There was a oneness with the sea that filled me up with life force and made me seek that union again and again.

Body surfing became the primary relationship I had with the ocean. I was always looking at the surf appreciating the power and grace of the waves, imagining what kind of a ride there was that day. Sometimes I was glad to be on shore as brutally crushing waves ripped up the surface.

After an hour or so of body surfing, I would come out of the water, dry my face and lie on a warm towel. I remember feeling the sun on my back, closing my eyes and letting my head spin from my ocean play. There was a roaring in my ears and my mind seemed to jumble about like the white sea foam in a pounding wave. I was tired from continually walking, jumping and diving my way out through the initial surf to where the larger waves were. I began to relive the best rides. I rested and let my body float on the sand.

As evening approached there was a marine chill in the air. I could taste the dried salt on my lips. We sometimes played a tag game called Octopus to warm ourselves up by running on a sand diagram that Dad made with his feet. Afterwards, breathless and happy we walked over to the fire ring.

Mom offered me a stick with a hot dog to roast over the fire and a cup of warmed beans. I had worked up a hunger and it felt good to sit quietly, smelling dinner cook. I watched the waves. The sun was low and becoming more dramatic near the horizon. I could see the light beginning to shine through the curls as they crested and then broke the surface.

We packed up what little we had brought. I looked around for my towel. In one trip to the car we all helped to carry the picnic items. Ground squirrels raced over the big boulders as we climbed up the embankment to the Rambler station wagon. We piled in and headed home.