Mahood's Memories

I can smell the dryness of the dirt. It seeps through the open window of our old Austin as we bump slowly down the rutted, winding track. The powder-fine dust settles thickly on the leaves of the thimbleberry bushes lining the way, and brings a sense of gritty, sandiness to my tongue. Faintly, overlying the aridness and invading my nostrils, is the tang of salty air.
Widening slightly, the road parallels the esturary. Today, instead of feisty dozer boats, snorting as they shift floating logs into makeshift booms, I see a blue heron. Characteristically poised one-legged in the shallows, it patiently out-waits its brunch. I hear seagulls calling to each other as they float on the warm air currents.
We make one last turn and we're here! Barely waiting for dad to park the car, I jump out and scamper onto the beach. The sand stretches for miles and miles! I run toward the gently lapping water and stop half-way. I wriggle my feet down into the gloppy sand. Reaching mid-calf, I feel the tiny particles oozing between my questing toes. The pungent sea air wafts around me, ruffling my hair and plucking gently at the pleated skirt of my bathing suit. Swaying slowly with the rhythm of summer, I am in heaven.
I hear my mother calling and reluctantly extricate my feet and legs from their self-imposed prison. I wander back to stand, shifting from foot to foot, as mom slathers suncreen on my legs, arms, back and face. The smell of coconut permeates the air.
Lunchtime now and a barbequed hamburger, the bun on one side liberally spread with mustard, tangy and bright yellow; the other with thick tomato ketchup. I wash it down with a glass of ice-cold, fizzey, home-made root beer. Dessert is a chunky slice of red, seeless watermelon. I bite deeply and the juice squirts out each side of my mouth. It drips onto the parched, white sand which greedily sucks it up. I throw the white-lined, green rind to the gulls and watch as they fight over the prize.
I gather shells; find 'sea cookies' with their distinctive flower petal design on the top and 'whips' - the long, rubbery root of the Japanese kelp. I take dips in the ocean. The afternoon wanes and it's time for dinner.
I skewer a hot-dog onto a stick cut from a young alder tree. I roast it. The juices drip and sizzle into the flames of the open fire. More watermelon and now I'm ready for my favourite part of the day.
Dad builds a raft with driftwood. To hold it together, he uses big old nails he has straightened in his workshop. I dive from and swim back to it over and over, until we have to leave.
Why does the drive home always seem so much shorter?