Our trip to the Oregon coast, the first in three summers, was much different from years past.

As the vacation ended, I found myself expecting more. I didn’t really think that we’d do anything other than what we did – mostly hanging out around camp or going to the beach, with the mandatory trip to Mo’s in Taft being the only excursion. But Thursday, when we started taking down the wall tent, I wasn’t ready to admit that that was it, we were done. I didn’t want to acknowledge that it was time to go home.

This year marked our fourth visit to Beverly Beach, a little city of campers and motorhomes and tents of all shapes and sizes nestled among huge, old evergreens with weird trunks and roots that come up out of the ground.

For variety one year, we went to Honeyman State Park, which – we learned after arrival – had no beach access. Traveling by car (which soon contained enough sand for a village of castles), we found a beach that – though it was very windy and we had to climb an enormous dune to reach – we had all to ourselves. Come to think of it, those two things were probably why we had it to ourselves.

We gathered a lot of nice shells there. It was the best shell beach we’d found in all our years of going to the coast. This year we discovered a beach that had few shells but an abundance of polished rock, including, according to a sign, agates. However, we were about as sure of what an agate looked like as Rachel’s (she’s 6 now) claim that “hermit crabs” bit her ankles as she waded in a stream.

This year, in fact, we didn’t bring home a dozen shells between us, though Becca (she’s 11) did pick up two near-identical razor-clam shells, which she plans to make into earrings. I hope that the former mollusk homes won’t smell too bad, though they won’t bother me much – I have almost no sense of smell, proven by the seashells I kept in my bedroom until recently clearing them (and the apparent clammy smell) out. I never noticed what other members of the family referred to as “stench.”

Store-bought shells I wouldn’t mind. Becca would probably go for that too, preferring the dyed pinks and purples to the natural, well, black. However, this was the first year that we didn’t go shell shopping. In fact, aside from the inevitable sand, we didn’t bring back any souvenirs, unless you count the giant donut or the golf scorecard.

We played miniature golf and, for the first time in history, I beat Dad (by three strokes – I had an ace on that impossible dome hole. Don’t ask me how; it was pure chance; I was as surprised as everyone else was).

This time around, we just didn’t seem to leave the campground as much. Not that I minded – this was the warmest weather we’ve ever had at the coast, and Dad, Becca, Rachel and I played in the surf up to our waists after our feet and ankles became numb from the icy water.

We didn’t spend any time on the coast’s popular tourist attractions; for us, it was just the beach – sand and rocks and water and sky – of the beautiful Oregon Coast.

Regardless of what we do or don’t do at the ocean next time – splash in the waves or have our campfire put out by rain – I’m already looking forward to going back.

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Sara Phinney will be a sophomore at Pendleton High School and can be reached at sara87@oregontrail.net