There is a place, a peaceful place beneath the maples.
A place of wild roses, berries and rosehips. Of statice and eagles and painted daisies. Of goldenrod and Queen Ann's lace.
And if you choose to leave the main path and follow a little, almost indistinguishable trail through the maples, birch, and salmonberries, you will come to a beach. A wild, Northwestern beach strewn with driftwood and seaweed. You will be alone here, except for the gulls and heron...and your thoughts.
This is a place where things live. A primitive place teeming with the stuff of creation. Mud, slime and clamshells; barnacles, rocks and all things beautiful and elemental.
There are buried treasures here. Like sunsets emblazoned in shells on the sand.
It's a place of pure joy;
where earth and sea and sky gather together in one place.
This place is called Semiahmoo. (Se-mee-Ah-moo). Chief James Charles, chief of the Semiahmoo tribe from 1909 to 1952, claimed that the word Semiahmoo means “half-moon,” and describes the shape of Semiahmoo Bay. Historian Lorraine Ellenwood wrote in "Years of Promise" that “it translates, in one sense, as ‘water all around’ or ‘hole in the sky".
Semiahmoo is a spit. And as such, there is water on the east side of the spit, and on the west. Half of the land is protected as a county park and historical site. The other half has some condominiums, a hotel, and a marina. The glorious thing about it is, that one can sit on the beach in the morning and watch the sun rise over Mt. Baker in the east. And from the same beach in the evening you can simply turn and watch the sun set over the water in the west.
If I could live anywhere, it would be here.
I came here as a child. Waded. Collected shells and agates. Dug for clams. I cannot imagine not coming here.
Perhaps Semiahmoo is a hole in the sky.