A Holey Strange Tradition

Some family traditions are stranger than you think...

A Holey Strange Tradition

I would wager that most families have their strange traditions, traditions that outsiders might think are odd or downright disgusting. The origins of those traditions are often in the vein of “you had to be there” or in-jokes and sound weird to outsiders, but they are special to the family and are as important as more conventional traditions such as decorating the Christmas tree or breaking the wishbone at Thanksgiving. Strange traditions are what brings families closer together and reinforce the ties of blood and home. My family is no different in our quite strange tradition that takes place whenever we visit a beach.

“Peehole!” My older sister and I laughed and pointed at the wide circle, as large as a hula hoop, that someone had drawn in the sand on the beach. In the exact center of the circle was a small indentation, about the size of a quarter. The word “Peehole” was scrawled in the sand above the indentation. At seven and eleven years old, my sister and I were still at the age when jokes about biological functions were considered the pinnacle of comic genius.

It was a gray spring afternoon along the beach outside of the small seaside town of Westport, Washington. We'd come on a short vacation with our parents and maternal grandparents. The older folks spent their days deep sea fishing for salmon and fighting sea sickness, while my sister and I grudgingly followed our grandmother through an endless line of kitschy tourist shops. The beach sat below a ten foot sea wall that was built from piles of massive, jumbled dark gray boulders. A single set of concrete stairs cut into the rocks led to the beach below. The waters of the Pacific were way too cold to swim in at that time of year, so we'd come down to the beach with our father to comb the beach for seashells. Perhaps needing some peace and quiet, Dad had gone off by himself further up the beach while my sister and I filled our jacket pockets (and an old Pringles can) with a variety of treasures from the sea. That activity ceased once we'd discovered the amusing Peehole. My sister and I proceeded to snatch up a couple of driftwood sticks and began drawing our own Peeholes all up and down the beach, laughing ourselves silly.

We were so engrossed in this activity that we'd failed to notice the fog that was rolling in with the tide. Fog is common in the Pacific Northwest and it can be extremely thick at times. This one was a real pea-souper. It wasn't until the fog had become so thick that we couldn't see more than ten feet in front of us that we became concerned. Before the fog, we'd seen the distant shape of our father walking away from us up the beach, but now he was no longer visible. Just as we began shouting, “Daddy! Daddy, where are you?” the fog horn above our heads began blaring. My sister and I slapped our hands over our ears, dropping our driftwood sticks, and started shrieking more out of surprise than pain. We couldn't see the water, but we could hear the waves getting closer with every passing minute and our father couldn't hear us over the continual warning bleats of the damned fog horn.

We huddled against the rocks of the sea wall, waiting for the inevitable to happen. We weren't actually in any real danger. High tide rarely reached the rocks and there was still plenty of beach left, but in that cloudy, lonely spot below a bellowing fog horn, my sister and I were certain that we were going to drown...all because we'd stopped to draw Peeholes.

We were more than relieved when the sudden shadow of our father lurched out of the swirling, gloomy fog. He'd retraced his steps and had heard our shouting. “What have you two been up to?” he hollered over the fog horn.

My sister and I didn't have time to answer because my father had looked down at the sand, where the traces of at least a dozen Peeholes were just visible through the shifting fog. A big grin broke out on his face and he shook his head at our antics. “Come on, let's get back to the hotel,” he told us, leading the way along the rocks so we could find the stairs to the top of the sea wall and safety.

For years after that day in the fog, every subsequent trip to the beach involved me and my sister drawing a Peehole in the sand. Fifteen years after that foggy day in 1985, I stood on a beach at the Hyatt Lagoons on the island of Oahu, Hawaii where my brother-in-law was stationed in the Air Force. My parents and I had come for my infant nephew's baptism and we'd all decided to spend a day at the beach. I was charged with minding my two nieces, ages two and four, while the rest of my family unpacked our belongings. My nieces fidgeted and looked longingly at the clear turquoise water that lapped at the light tan sand. On impulse, I kicked my brown Huarache sandals off, reveling in the texture of the sand as I dug my toes into the soft, pliant earth. I presently began dragging my foot around in a circle while my nieces stood under a giant umbrella that looked like one half of an upside-down coconut topped with palm fringe. My nieces watched me with curiosity as my family continued to drop item after item onto the sand. My mother spread out a picnic blanket and my sister rummaged in a bag for sunblock, both of them oblivious to my activity. I completed the circle and dabbed my toe in the center to create a small impression before I knelt on the sand and wrote “Peehole” with my right index finger.

My oldest niece, Taylor, scrunched her face up and asked, “What's that, Aunt Hez?”

“It's a Peehole,” I told her as I stood up and dusted the sand off my knees.

“Ew!” she replied, grossed out. Taylor was well into the tattling stage at that time. “Mom! Aunt Hez made a Peehole in the sand!”

My sister looked up from her rummaging, saw my creation, and busted into laughter. So did my mom and dad. This wasn't the reaction that Taylor had expected and she looked at all of us as if we'd gone insane.

“You always make a Peehole when you go to the beach,” my sister told her, proving that she hadn't lost control of her faculties. Taylor looked at her grandparents, both of whom were nodding sagely in agreement.

Next month, I'm taking my two year old daughter to California to visit those same grandparents. She's never been to the beach and the whole family is planning on visiting Bodega Bay so she can build sandcastles. I'm not sure if I'll be the one to draw the Peehole in the sand, but I can guarantee that if I don't, my sister or my nieces will! Like any good family tradition, the Peehole has been passed on to the next generation.

Author's Note

This was written as the Creative Non-Fiction assignment for my Creative Writing class. My professor really enjoyed it and said she laughed really hard, was riveted, and liked how it flows. I thought I'd share it with you. This is the first Creative Non-Fiction I've written and, as "non-fiction" indicates, it is a true story!