From the moment we set sail from San Francisco last fall, there was something missing on the boat. It was our boy, Kess, who had made Woodwind his home with us for seven of his earliest years. No sooner had the Golden Gate Bridge slipped astern, taking us south, than I looked around expecting to find him playing in the galley. I was sure I would see him, book in hand, looking for one of us to read a story. But when Hurricane Sergio plagued us with gales and storms all the way south in November, missing Kess was replaced with amazement that we’d ever taken a tot to sea. At the time, though, it seemed so easy.

In January, when Panama appeared on our horizon, we were missing the man our son has become. We’d grown use to Kess’ absence until we reached the Eastern Caribbean. Visiting Anguilla, St. Marten, St. Barths and all the other places we’ve recently stopped, his presence has been felt through the many memories we made together in these islands so long ago.

Before returning to Gig Harbor for the summer last week (Bruce will follow soon, after securing Woody), I had set out to walk on “our secret beach” -- a long rocky shore in Trellis Bay on Beef Island, Tortola, near Virgin Gorda. Few tourists visit this beach, and I immediately remembered why. When our son was 3 or 4 we somehow scaled the gigantic boulders that help keep the beach a secret. As I used rock-climbing techniques to scale them this time, I had to wonder how I’d done it with Kess. Sheer will, perhaps, combined with curiosity. Maybe just the lure of a good treasure hunt took us out there again and again.

A “treasure” back then was a bag full of glistening shells, small buoys the size of a pop can, weird cups, newly lost hats or any cool item that fell off a passing boat and was cast upon that shore. Mostly the beach is full of plastic junk; discarded bottles, polypropylene ropes and nets, sun screen bottles, and enough shoes to please Imelda Marcos, except there’s only one of each pair.

We held a scavenger hunt on that beach for our son’s seventh birthday. Four small children and I carefully trudged the long haul to get there, where I handed them water, treats and a list of items to fill their bags with: one flip flop, a piece of rope, something green, the prettiest shell, the roundest rock, the most amazing treasure (to be determined by me, the judge). Before I let them loose, I emphasized, “Be careful not to step in the tar!” Of course, we hadn’t gone far when seven-year-old Hannah stepped in a wad of the naturally occurring goo. Each step she took slimed it further across her foot, then to the other, then up and down her legs and on to her arms. She was a mess. Amazingly enough, though, it missed the pretty pink dress she was wearing. I regrouped the troop, offering a reward to the first child who could find a container of sun screen so we could use the oil from it to soften and scrape off the tar. It worked. Hannah and the party were saved.

As soon as we arrived on Tortola, I knew I needed to make a pilgrimage to that special place. I found two shells, four bleached sea urchin skeletons and a three-inch Lego pirate wearing pink dotted pants. But the treasure I most wanted to find was a head full of memories we’d made so long ago. Luckily, they were all still there, mine for the taking.

Jan