I’ve been spending a lot of time at Washaway, but have been a poor beach correspondent. There has been a lot going on.
My neighbor Lois died July 27. She and her husband Ray are very dear to me, and help further my theory that if one is truly cool, age has no effect. Lois suffered terribly from Crohn’s and other ailments, yet somehow always kept her sparkle and spunk. Watch her steal the spotlight on King 5’s “Evening Magazine” about Washaway Beach. Lois was a true star.
In other bad news, Roberta Starkey’s brand new gypsy wagon food truck venture got shut down, despite her getting a permit. This is the work of the guy in the RV at the end of Whipple Ave who, as I understand it, is squatting there and has no right to be carrying on.
I am especially peeved because I never got to try the homemade soups, reputedly excellent burgers, or a Washaway Beach sandwich, AND this was the only food alternative besides the convenience store and the casino, AND Roberta is a good lady and the gypsy wagon is cute. Very lame, Mr. Squatter.
Speaking of dumb, it is summer, and the true locals are afoot. I very nearly hit one as it wandered in front of my car in Grayland’s business district. I get a lot of flack for Warranted Use Of The Car Horn, my gift to the West, but here, as ever, it is a tool of progressive change for the bold but stupid.
“I think they’re called white-tailed, not jackass,” she replied.
Summer is always good for forts. This one is especially deluxe.
The sand rises and moves around a lot in summer. The World War II gun turret has been filling up for awhile.
I especially wonder about surfing at Washaway because of the submerged metal pipes, known as sand points. A popular way to get free water is to drive a 20 ft. cast iron pipe down into the ground. After your house falls in, the sand points remain on the beach as an ever-changing sculpture garden.
There are all kinds of sea creatures around right now, indigenous and imported.
When I was twelve my parents sent me to horse camp in West Virginia. This is a great way to cure a young gal of wanting a pony. After a week of mucking out the stalls at the crack of dawn and trying to get the bridle behind big ol’ scary horse teeth, believe me I was over it. Yet, on the beach, it still looks like fun.
Ray is such a big-hearted guy. I’ve been encouraging him to get a new dog, if only because a dog will keep up with him on the beach better than I can. His previous dog, a cute Pomeranian named Skipper, was stolen out of his yard, and he was devastated. But now, with Lois gone, I would like to see a nice creature keeping an eye on him.
Like the best traveling companions, mine doesn’t say much, yet somehow manages to be both amused and amusing.