If there was ever a house that fulfilled all the requirements of a beach house it is this one. It is not my beach house. I only borrow it when I walk along this particular beach. I fear that, during a winter storm, a high tide will take it out to sea. But each time I return, the beach house is still there, as if taunting its precarious position along the eroding shoreline.

I sometimes imagine the vacation drama of the residents. Maybe they have had a squabble and he comes and sits in a chair on the porch, brooding over his hurts, with his smoldering heavy-lidded eyes gazing out to sea. Or maybe a fine meal of crab from their crab nets has been savoured and they bring their guests out on the porch as the sun sets, swirling and sipping deep red wine, in over large glasses. Then she offers to make fresh ground dark roast coffee to go with a blackberry crumb and homemade ice-cream. The spell breaks. The guests realized they have become chilled in the evening air. One by one they retreat again, into the warmth of the spacious beach house.

I like to admire this dwelling from the public sands, making up these stories fitting for such a splendid beach house. My musings, as I map these scenarios, feel just a little like trespassing through a church yard. It is public space but I know I am walking on sacred ground.

Sprout Question: What stories are amusing you?

© 2010 Terrill Welch, All rights reserved.

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Creative Potager – where imagination rules. Be inspired.

From Mayne Island, British Columbia, Canada