On Catalina Island in summertime, the small beach in Avalon is jam-packed. Each morning, early risers mark their places on the beach with a carpet of bright towels and gather fist-sized rocks to anchor them against the breeze.

I spread my towel and set up my beach chair on the exact spot where I have sat for almost 60 years. It would feel wrong to sit anywhere else. From there, I look out at an unchanged scene: clear blue water, the old green pleasure pier to the left, a small fleet of red rental boats moored in front of me. Against this canvas, my Catalina history unfolds.

It began, really, before I was born. My mother first came to the island in 1908 when she was three years old. As young sweethearts in the 20s, Mom and Dad sailed from the mainland for Saturday night dances at the art deco Casino Ballroom.

My parents, brother, and I started to vacation here when I was a little girl. At this perfect beach for families, the waves were small and safe, just right for wading. We built castles in the wet sand, and I found rocks and shells to line up under the cool shade of my parents' umbrella.

By the time I was a teenager, it was not cool at all to be under an umbrella. Instead, my girlfriend and I lay in the hot sun and slathered ourselves with baby oil, hoping for a great tan and attention from the local boys.

We succeeded and dated two of the cutest guys in town. They bought us ice cream cones and took us to the movies in the big Casino Theater. But a bigger treat was the dance held in the ballroom above. Between dances, Jerry and I leaned against the railing of the balcony overlooking the bay. Lights from the hillside homes were reflected on the dark water. Laughter floated out from the restaurants and bars along the curved waterfront, and gentle waves lapped against the boats moored for the night. The chimes on the hill above rang out the quarter-hours, but time stood still when Jerry kissed me.

Some years later, I was back to sitting under the umbrella, doling out sand shovels and peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches to my young sons. From my chair, I watched them dig, run and play in the water with their dad - who wasn't Jerry. As always, the beach was alive with families laughing, babies crying and a new batch of teenage girls preening in their bikinis.

Eventually, I viewed it all as a divorced woman. The boys and I made shorter, less expensive visits to Catalina, but we were glad to escape the city and breathe in the familiar smells of salt air, sunscreen, fish and French fries. On those precious days, we lingered on the beach until most people had left and the shadows of the palm trees lengthened on the sand.

Now I'm the matriarch of the family. Soon, my grandsons, great-nephews, and their parents will gather at our spot; the new generation will dig and splash and show me some rocks. I sit still. I listen to the cry of the gulls, feel the breeze on yesterday's sunburn, and drink in the scene before me: blue water, green pier, and red boats.

Chris Heacox

This article was previously published in the articles section on eCatalina.com