Sea Shells, Ice Cream

This feels like an odd memory to write about, because I’m currently sitting in a mountain cabin surrounded by snow. 

I grew up spending lots of time in Newport Beach, because my family had a house there. We often went with another family who stayed with us, the Adams. Matt was a few years older than me and his sister was about my brother’s age. We would spend weeks there every summer, mostly playing in the bay surrounding our little island. 

On the island was an ice cream shop named Dad’s, and they had a special offering: Balboa Bars. A Bal Bar is a brick of vanilla ice cream with a stick through it. They dipped the ice cream in melted chocolate sauce and before it hardened, they put the bar in sprinkles, or nuts, or chopped up Oreos. The chocolate would resolidify and they would hand this delectable summer treat to you on a cheap paper tray.

My parents being smart and recognizing that we would eat as many Balboa Bars as possible, they tried to ration how many we had. I think most days this “rationing” meant that we kept it to one bar per day. So, my siblings and I figured out a way around the fact that my parents had all the money.

We walked the beach, collecting seashells, and would eventually reconvene to lay out our newfound treasures. The beachfront on Balboa Island has a seawall about three feet high, perfect for spreading out a towel and the cream of the crop shells for an impromptu sales booth.

We would charge nickels, dimes, and quarters for the especially unique shells. After a few hours working the beach front, enough people would have played along for us to have a Ziploc bag full of change. I think most people just walked a few hundred feet and tossed the shells back into the sand, but we had a great sales rate when people heard that we were trying to earn enough for Balboa Bars. 

Now, when I go to Balboa, I still see kids selling shells from time to time. It’s a little sad for me now, because I think three decades of people like me collecting all the best shells has left the beaches pretty sparse of shells. Whenever I see a shell sale now, the kids have painted on the shells, making them bright pink and green. They lack the simple charm of the ones we sold, but I always make sure that I don’t pass by without giving them something for their shells.

Balboa was such a huge part of my childhood, and I think what makes me saddest about this memory is that the place simply can’t be what it was when I was younger. Balboa Bars cost too much now to buy with change. The beautiful shells have been long since harvested from the sandy shore. 

But looking out at the snow just outside the window, I know that no other place will ever hold the charm and the magic that Balboa has for me. Even though the island is different now, it’s still the place where I could make a whole day out of seashells and ice cream.