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It doesn’t matter what kind of beach you can get to: a wintry, churn of wild energy flung upon the sand, a sunny dune where you can read your book in peace, a rocky ledge strewn with mussels, a wide, quiet beach at dawn full of the tide’s leavings or the soothing shore of a lake with its gentle lapping—I love them all.

Love at first sight

Born in Illinois, the closest thing I’d seen to an ocean was the sea of grasses washing across the Midwestern prairies. On our move west when I was just a kid, I could sense the drama building as I first saw the Rockies looming in the distance, then the excitement of the climb over them, and the descent into a rugged world I’d only glimpsed in cowboy movies. But nothing on that trip compared to the thrill of seeing the ocean for the first time.

I hurry to the crest of the hill and pause at its edge in awe. Before me is Haystack Rock—I am amazed anything that huge sits in the ocean.

I run, tumble and roll down the steep sandy bank to the wide beach below. The waves are far away and I can walk to the base of the giant rock, exploring tide pools along the way. In the very first one I find a strange new animal grasping a smaller rock. A five-fingered purple sea star, it’s just the size of my hand, and I match mine to it in greeting.

Not quite seven, I am immediately enthralled—with the expanse of the sea, the tang of the air, the clarity of the water and the feel of sand between my toes. Expanding my lungs with the glorious salty air, I am certain the ocean will always be a magical place for me. And I was right.

As I wade through shallow pools, edging closer to the waves crashing onto the far side of Haystack Rock, I am lured by the sound, by the hypnotic rhythm, by the immense unharnessed power I feel vibrating in the soles of my feet. But I am not afraid. I somehow sense I will always know how to respect this power, and perhaps even one day how to infuse it into my own body.

Being on the seashore energized me, heightened my perceptions and made me never want to leave. From that day forward I pestered my parents every weekend and every summer to take me back. Thankfully, they often did. After all, it was only an hour away, and in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s traffic was never a problem, since Oregon had yet to become a popular destination. I suppose my parents, who had spent their lives landlocked in the Midwest, also felt a similar attraction.

And once I got my driver’s license and my own car, I would even play hooky from high school and spend the day alone at the beach in utter bliss. Being a good student—and an even better forger—I was able to show up the next day with a note from my mother and no one was the wiser. For me the ocean was a drug, an addiction, a constant pull on me, as if my own inner tides could not properly ebb and flow so far removed from the source. And I always knew I would have to live at her edge.
(Excerpted from my forthcoming book, Treasures in the Tide)

The beaches in my life

And I have. I’ve lived all up and down the California and Oregon coasts…Carmel, Pacific Grove, Monterey, San Francisco, Mendocino, Gleneden Beach, Nelscott, Cannon Beach. And now I’ve gone as far north as I can in this country…to the remote and spectacular coast of Washington state along the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Now before you think I’ve lost my mind moving to a place with a reputation for nasty weather 350 days a year, let me tell you a big secret—but don’t tell anyone—I live in a rainshadow. What’s that? I am protected by the huge Olympic Mountains just behind me.

And even though the Hoh rainforest is part of the Olympics, where rain pours down 12-14 FEET per year, here I get only about 10 INCHES a year—the same as Los Angeles! The rainshadow is a small crescent of dryness reaching from Sequim to Port Townsend, and I live right in the middle.

Out my windows I can see the San Juan Islands, Discovery Bay (which is named after the Discovery, a ship used by Capt. George Vancouver in 1792 during his exploration of this area for Britain) as well as the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the waterway which separates the U.S. from British Columbia. I have a dazzling view of Mt. Baker in the North Cascades, and on a clear day I can see all the way to Mt. Whistler north of Vancouver, B.C. (Yeah, he named a lot of things around here.)

So now that I’ve told you about my beachy side, a bit about the recluse part. If you've read this far, I don't mind revealing my name: Oriana Green. And what better profession for a recluse than ghostwriter? Ever wondered what that really is? Find out here.

I love it here, because I can walk on the beach every day and rarely see another soul. And though it’s a 40-mile roundtrip to the nearest town, it’s worth it to me, because it’s Quiet with a capital Q. The noisiest people here are the geese on the lagoon and the seagulls laughing as they swoop by playing on updrafts.

I wake with my mind spewing out ideas faster than I can corral them into the notebooks I keep beside my bed. Then I move to my favorite chair and gaze out my windows at the parade of ships along the Strait of Juan de Fuca—and enjoy another hour or so of writing—all before breakfast. I think. I observe. I dream. I write. I read, take photos, create little movies. All day and into my nights.

And for that I need solitude. But I do have a boon companion, my sidekick for the last 15 years—my papoodle, Rose. What’s a papoodle? Half miniature poodle, half papillon—all love and butterfly ears.

See you on the beach!

Keep track of your friends in a beachy blank journal featuring my photos on the cover.

Flip through my journals and other cool stuff here.