My mother, father, brother and I camped there on our summer vacations for years. In those days, Mom had two favorite activities: sitting on a huge boulder we soon dubbed the "Fanny Rock". (Mom's name went through many manifestations in her lifetime. She was born Maria Francesca, which was quickly Americanized to Frances Marion. But everyone called her Fanny.) Her other beloved pasttime -- taking a beach towel, finding a spot far enough away from the crowds, but not too far (she hated hiking) -- and sunning. My memory sense was so strong this time when I walked past the place where she sunned, I could almost see her, on the blanket, slathered up with suntan lotion, laughing. And smoking her Philip Morris. Unfiltered.

On my present day walk, I could visualize her on that rock. When I was a teenager, my girlfriend Bobbie and I would walk up and down that beach looking for boys. With spotty success. When we returned to the "Fanny Rock" there would be Mom -- chatting it up with the guys. Maddening, but helpful if Bobbie and I had failed in our own quest.

And, oh those walks my best friend and I took. We scrambled over driftwood, followed the waves as they advanced and receded onto the sand, sank up to our ankles in the sand and generally kept our eyes out for those boys. At the end of the walk, we arrived at Otter Rock, where there were picnic tables and a little shop where you could get a piece of blackberry pie ala mode.

At Otter Rock, which is on top of a cliff, you can look over the fence and see a deep hole cut into the earth by centuries of waves. It is called Devil's Punch Bowl. It is still awesome. At the top of the cliff was where my family had our picnics. Always a loaf of Williams Bread, a superior sliced loaf of soft squishy white bread. A rectangle of sharp cheddar which Dad cut with his pocket knife. Bologna. Cold pork & beans. Potato chips. And cans of Cragmont, the Safeway brand of soda. My father would plop them into the freezer the night before, so that by the time we opened them -- with a can opener of course -- they were good and cold. The entire picnic lunch was packed into an open cardboard box -- we had no ice chest in those days.

Oh, those camping vacations. The thing I seem to remember the most: the Coleman lantern. How we would sit around the fire at night and then, I'd watch Daddy pump up that Coleman, light that magic net "bulb" and illuminate us all sitting around the table. With our Cragmonts.

There is a place north of the Punch Bowl -- it was called the Marine Gardens. That was where my father took my brother and me to explore. Mom would stay up at the top, joyfully listening to the waves. The beach at Marine Gardens was so named because if you hit the low tide just right, it left behind pools of miniature sea gardens. Shallow pools covered along the sides with sea anemones of bright, jewel colors. I liked to poke them with my finger and watch them close into spongy, bumpy buds. Starfish of every hue, tiny Hermit crabs that took over abandoned shells. Jelly fish, both congealed masses on the sand, and floating ones bobbing in the ocean. Shells, agates. Scratchy barnacles, rocks coated with midnight blue/black mussels. We could spend hours there. And, we did.

There are so many memories that just one walk evoked. I am convinced those moments are locked in the shifting sands of Beverly Beach. And, for that I am glad.