Last Saturday, we drove to the beach to visit our friend Joy and swim in her pool. On the way, we stopped at my Dad’s former beachfront house to see how it looked. The mansion next door was for sale, so I jumped out to pick up a flyer.

The pricetag, $7.9 million dollars, was enough to make me gasp. But I was more disgusted by the thought of a 5-bedroom house with over 8300 square feet of space. “Give me a break,” commented Barry, “They call it a single-family dwelling!”

We were still grumbling about it when we reached Ocean Resorts, where Joy lives. As we turned into the park, for it’s considered a “mobile home park,” I found myself wondering who was happier: The residents of Ocean Resorts, who live in homes ranging from 240-square-foot trailers to modest 1100-square-foot houses, or the owner of that mansion?

Ocean Resorts wins that contest, hands down.

Started as a campground in the 1920’s, Ocean Resorts has a friendly family feeling to it. It’s not just for seniors, and people who live there know each other and look out for each other. Last year, 150 of the 400 homes were destroyed in Hurricanes Jeanne and Frances, but most of the residents are rebuilding and returning.

Joy is one of them, replacing the manufactured home that was destroyed in Frances with a charming 2-bedroom house made of concrete block and stucco, or CBS. Joy also introduced us to Marilyn, who had left for Hurricane Jeanne and then heard that her house was on fire from a fallen transformer.

“We called the fire department, but there was nothing they could do. The island had been evacuated. Why didn’t they turn the power off?” Five homes were totally lost in the fire.

Before the fire, Marilyn’s home had been full of her frog collection, with frog art everywhere. “She even had frogs on her towels,” commented Joy. Marilyn and her husband, who spend half the year in New Hampshire, bought a new manufactured home for their Ocean Resorts lot. “Every friend who comes through the door brings me a new frog!” she laughed.

We spent hours at the pool that day, and Joy seemed to know everyone there, jumping up to hug many of her friends.

I snoozed in a chaise lounge after my swim, listening to the surf and feeling the warm sun. I was almost asleep, not really listening to Joy and Dad’s quiet conversation, when I heard something of interest.

“Hmm,” I thought. “I heard her say treasure ship…but was it in Central America, or the Central America?” Just in case, I had to interrupt and ask.

Joy pointed out an older lady in a purple bathing suit. “Her son was the one who got all that gold from the ship, the Central America. That’s Phyllis Thompson.”

Now I was wide awake. “Ooh! Can you introduce me?”

It was only a month ago that I had galloped my way through the excellent book, Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea. It is the behind-the-scenes story of Tommy Thompson and the crew who raised the gold from the famous steamship, the Central America. One of the members of the crew, Alan Scott, belongs to our Seattle sailing club, and his presentation last year got me interested in the book. When I read it, I discovered that much of the preparation for the project was done in Columbus, Ohio, about a block from where I lived at the time. Now, in another amazing coincidence, Tommy Thompson’s mother was here at the pool.

We walked over to chat with Phyllis, who told us that her son had a place in nearby Vero Beach, “But he’s not there very much. He’s on his 29th lawsuit.” Sadly, the raising of the gold from the Central America also brought up a number of sharks — most of the money made from the gold was lost to lawsuits against insurance companies who claimed they had rights to it.

When I mentioned that we knew Alan Scott, she was delighted. “I haven’t seen him in years! When you see him, give him a hug and a kiss from me!”

Joy told us that Phyllis has her own share of gold — she won a number of medals while they were on the senior swim team.

We had a wonderful day, walking and swimming and meeting Joy’s friends. Even people she didn’t know (and there were few) smiled and waved. What kind of people live in such tiny homes, just a few feet away from each other? People who realize that happiness isn’t 8300 feet to yourself and a big gate to keep the rest of the world out. For the folks at Ocean Resorts, and many of the rest of us, happiness is about community.

I’ve heard of soft-shell crabs, and I’ve even eaten a few. A few weeks ago, Meps and I were walking on the beach at Moclips, Washington, and we saw some strange critters washed up in large numbers. “What do you suppose those are?” we asked each other. “Soft-shell clams?”

OK, I’m not at all convinced that they are soft-shell clams, or even that such things exist, but I love the idea. And they do look quite a bit like clams, with a similar shape and clam-like growth rings. On the other hand, they seem to be tri-valve clams since they have a flat bottom and either a flat top with a sail, or perhaps the vertical part is a third section.

I suspect that the blue ones were more freshly deposited on the beach. Others have a translucent or iridescent color and look more like empty shells; maybe they’ve been up on the beach longer, with a chance to dry out.

If you have any idea what these critters really are, give us a hint. If you don’t know what they are, don’t worry–we’ll enjoy your interesting guess more than the correct answer!

For those of you who receive these by e-mail, Barry says he wants to apologize. His add-on code went haywire last week and resent a whole bunch of old posts. I was mortified! I hope this new piece makes up for the unintentional spamming of your e-mail.
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I’m sitting in the Atlanta airport, reminiscing about the good old days. Those were the days before 9/11, when airport security changed forever.

Back then, you could walk someone to the gate and say goodbye, with their very plane visible through the big windows. You could meet people at the gate, too, carrying huge bouquets of flowers and gigantic teddy bears. One year, I put on my leather jacket and chauffeur’s cap and made a large cardboard sign reading “SCHULTE.” My brother didn’t recognize me standing at the gate. Given that he walked right by me, he must not have recognized his own name, either.

They were worried about terrorists back then, but they didn’t know which weapons to be afraid of. Flying home from a Christmas celebration in the early 90’s, Barry and I were just about strip-searched. Grandma had given us a lovely letter opener shaped like a butter knife, and we foolishly left it in our carry-on. They didn’t have envelopes like they do now, so you can nail your sentimental nail clippers home; back then, they just let us carry that scary butter knife on the plane.

They used to put the metal detectors a lot closer to the gates, too, so waiting passengers could enjoy the show. We were sitting near the checkpoint in a Michigan airport once, when everyone started talking and snickering. A biker had walked up to the metal detector. Every square inch of his leather jacket and pants was covered in decorative metal rivets. He sported earrings, a nose ring, chains around his neck and waist, a studded collar, and a studded wristband.

The security fellow sighed, waved him over to the side, and pulled out his wand. It was useless to try to “detect” metal within about ten feet of him, so the screening was silly. Nonetheless, they didn’t subject Mr. Metal to the embarrassing pat-downs used today. A few minutes later, the voluptuous Mrs. Metal appeared, togged out in matching attire, and was given even less of a screening.

My favorite story about travelers with interesting attire was on a redeye flight from Seattle to this very airport, Atlanta. I was traveling alone, on business, and Barry walked me to the gate. We were distracted from our farewell embrace by the arrival of a half-dozen pirates. They wore pantaloons and pirate blouses, bandanas and eye patches. Luckily, since Barry had accompanied me to the gate, I was able to confirm that I was not hallucinating.

The pirates were incredibly loud and boisterous, laughing and joking and slapping each other on the back. Every step jangled and clanked, thanks to the chains and medallions around their necks, plus each one had a huge pewter tankard hanging from his belt. “So much for sleeping on this redeye,” I commented wryly to Barry.

But I was wrong! They were not the youngest pirates, and shortly after settling on the plane, they were all fast asleep. The only noise was a little snoring.

They turned out to be Seattle’s infamous Seafair Pirates, headed to a pirate rendezvous in the Caribbean. A bunch of pirates were getting together from all over the world, and these guys wanted to be well-rested for the nonstop partying ahead.

When we got off the plane in Atlanta, it was about 5 am. The pirates and I were all a bit wilted as we started walking down the empty concourse. Just before we parted ways, I pulled out my camera. “Just one picture,” I pleaded, “or nobody will ever believe this.” They insisted on putting me in the middle of the photo, and we found a sleepy passenger to snap the photo.

Ever since that experience, I have always wanted to dress up as a pirate and jump on a jumbo jet. Sadly, I think I would have to pack my costume in checked baggage. I’m not sure what the security folks would do to a lady in an eye patch with a pewter tankard hanging from her belt, and I’m not sure I want to find out.

There’s a great Looney Tunes character by the name of Marvin the Martian. He was always trying, unsuccessfully, to blow up the Earth. Usually, his equipment would act as a dud, until he walked over to it. In a little nasal, strangled voice, he’d say, “Kaboom… There was supposed to be an earth-shattering Kaboom…” Then it would blow him up.

Whenever Barry and I send out a big important e-mail, one of us will say, “Kaboom… There was supposed to be an earth-shattering Kaboom…”

A big important e-mail can be a resume for a job you really, really want. You’re praying that you didn’t misspell your own name when you hit Send. It can be a party invitation for Friday the 10th, only half your friends show up on Friday the 9th and the other half show up on Saturday the 10th. It can be a holiday letter to 50 friends that says “Had a great trip to Fart Rock this summer.”

I’ve been volunteering down at the Bahia Street office for about a month now, and I’ve had several “Kaboom” moments. One of my first projects was sending out our quarterly update e-mail, a delightful letter written by co-director Margaret Willson. That went to about 575 people, mostly by e-mail. Then I wrote a brief e-mail to our Seattle area donors and volunteers, about 400 people, asking for volunteers for an event. I got a number of friendly and positive responses.

Yesterday, I worked on my most earth-shattering project yet. Once a year, we send out a real letter in the mail, asking for donations. I was brainstorming with Margaret Willson about it, since she has always written and signed such correspondence since we started in 1998. Somehow, we came up with the idea that I, as a founding board member, should write and sign the letter. It sounded like a fun writing challenge, so I said, “Sure!”

I sat down at the computer and mentally pictured a couple of friends who are on the mailing list. Then I started typing what I would say to them. It wasn’t all that difficult, and the letter was done in an hour or two. I showed it to Margaret and Nancy and Barry, and each of them suggested some good edits. I listened to each suggestion, thinking, “Would I use those words if I was speaking? Then I made changes carefully, being sure to keep the letter in my own “voice.”

That’s where a letter is different from an article or a book. As a professional editor, I believe everything written can benefit from editing. But a letter is a special case: If it’s too polished, or if there are words the author wouldn’t normally use, it can actually lose credibility. It’s the difference between having your name at the top of the paper, and having your name (and signature) at the bottom.

I didn’t give it a lot more thought until I arrived at the office yesterday morning, ready to do the actual mailing. Nancy had done all the printing, and boxes of envelopes were stacked three and four high on the table. The letters themselves sat nearby, a pile of almost 700 pieces of paper with my name at the bottom.

Stuffing envelopes all day was not like hitting “send” on an e-mail. It was much worse. During the hours of envelope stuffing, my mind was free to really worry. Was the letter OK? Would our supporters mind that I had written it, instead of the usual Margaret? Would someone find fault with my grammar or spelling? Would anyone be offended?

I suppose that’s one reason people are often intimidated by writing. There’s a fear of putting your words on the line, such that you can’t take them back or soften them. I’m never been intimidated by that before, but then, I’ve never sent a letter to 700 people.

Was there supposed to be an earth-shattering Kaboom, or is that just the sound of my confidence cracking?

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By the way, if you aren’t on the Bahia Street mailing list, and you’d like to receive my wonderful letter, let me know. You can also go to the site and sign up for the mailing list. While you’re there, please make a donation — thank you!