In June 2021, I took a class with Nancy from The Writer’s Center on Personal Narratives Fiction and Non-Fiction by Aaron Hamburger. The assignment was to write a short, yet sensory rich, memory from childhood. I know I started going to this place before my sixth birthday (since I celebrated it there), but since we did not have a second car until after Nancy was born it could have been the summer when I turned five.

As we waited in the parking lot for them to pull up our 1968 Impala station wagon, with the three tail lights flanking each side of the tailgate, I was giddy that I had settled on the Cherry Charms Sweet Pop as my drive home treat.  I had agonized over the decision, but as much I loved the cold feel in my mouth, from the luscious vanilla soft serve ice cream, swirled into and on top of a flat bottom cake cone, it would have melted before we got all our beach gear loaded up for the drive from Santa Monica to Burbank, California.  With the window down, and the air drying my freshly washed hair, the sucker barely fit in my mouth and would last well beyond the drive home, if I didn’t bite on it.  It didn’t always last until we got home.

At least twice a week, we had the childhood luxury to drive through Los Angeles to the Beach Club, sponsored by my father’s company, to escape the summer heat.  We would pull up and the boys in white shorts and tennis shoes, with matching navy shirts, would help my mom unload her three active beach enthusiasts.  We learned to get out quickly and get behind the white line so the next cars could come in off the busy Pacific Coast Highway.  We walked down the stairs to the sounds of paddle balls hitting rackets and tennis shoes squeaking on the courts.  I was too young to play.  I think you had to be ten.  

We skipped along the walkway to the intersection of choices.  Turn right to go to the indoor pool with the high dive and low boards.  I won swim races in that pool to the sound of echos from different water activities.  No one entered without shuffling your feet in the six inch deep mini pools, tiled with little blue squares, to wash off the sand before the smell of chlorine met salty sunshine.  

Turn left to the stretch of beachy playground and the vibrant blue ocean.  More helpful boys carried umbrellas and beach chairs as we passed the swing sets and monkey bars along the way. The concrete walk ended at the flagpole, the meeting place of many kid activities, and then it was a mad dash to the awaiting waves.

If we had walked straight from the car, a red and white awning entrance welcomed diners to the outdoor grill. I was allowed to get in line and order my own french fries. They were crispy on the outside and soft to the bite with just a perfect amount of salt.  I always wondered if it was sea salt from the watery waves.  

Above all of it was the big deck with the white chain with a little sign that read Adults Only.  We could ask people to send word to our parents that we needed them, on weekend afternoons when we stayed for the evening cookouts. I would not see that mysterious area until I was in my senior year of college. It did not meet my imagined expectations.  

We would start the day at the edge of the ocean with the waves chasing us in and out of shore.  We would collect sandcrabs in our bright colored buckets and keep them watered for the journey home.  We stopped doing that after only a couple times.  At lunch time, we would go closer to the clubhouse so the little ones could go into the nursery for naps.  The bell would ring and I would be sent up to check the board for our last name to tell us when my siblings were awake. I could wander to the area that held the big green craft box that was the source of many lanyard keychains and beading projects. Some days there was more time at the shore, and others we swam until it was time to go to the locker room to shower off any remaining Coppertone sunscreen mixed with salt and sand. 

From hopping towel to towel with bare feet when the sand was too hot, to duck duck goose games, to the smell of Ivory soap and Breck shampoo as I watched sand go down the drain, to the sound of the metal machine that spun the water out of our wet swimsuits, I can quickly serve myself vivid memories to fill my cup with a base of seaside mixed with a splash of childhood sweetness.