glass beach

Last Updated on July 23, 2025

People search for sea glass like it’s gold—squatting, bending, digging, sifting, inspecting. Some come away with a handful, others fill pockets or bags. Everyone on the hunt for something shiny, smoothed by time and tide.

Some say, “Glass Beach isn’t what it used to be.” Meaning: less glass now, fewer large pieces worth pocketing. There’s an undercurrent of disappointment, like the beach itself failed to meet expectations—when really, people have been combing this place since the 1970s, after a dumping ground was transformed into a public beach.

Glass isn’t rare, or precious. It’s not valuable in the traditional sense. But maybe what we’re all searching for isn’t glass—it’s the experience of finding something special.

Part of me resists the urge to collect. I can’t pretend to be excited about pocketing the “best” pieces. Another part of me thinks: people will do what they want, as long as they’re allowed to.

Today I’m just grateful to be here, where ocean meets land. Where water, rock, sea life, driftwood, people, and time keep reorganizing into something new.

I look for quiet, off-the-path moments—even though I haven’t ventured far from the path. A deep purple starfish hugging the rock and hanging on until the tide comes in. Gorgeous light green anemones waving from a shallow pool. A fluffy star wish that came down for a landing. The most beautiful driftwood you’ve ever seen—compliments of a logging town.

I hear people on the beach mentioning tourism. People are always flocking to see the things worth seeing. But really, it’s families breathing in the salty air, taking breaks from screens, learning how to be with ocean, sand, and sky. It’s grumpy, sullen kids unimpressed with nature, but catching a smile when they see joyful seals playing in the water. It’s the rhythm of the waves, the pull of the moon, gravity at work on water and heart alike.

I practice shifting perspectives. Zoom in to a single grain of sand. Zoom out to the whole universe.

I’ll always find myself a little wistful, a little lonely, a little moody—no matter the setting—and still more comfortable on the edge than in the middle of a group. Watching from a distance. Listening. It brings me calm. Helps me make sense of it all without saying a word.

I wonder: Who am I here? Is this place witnessing me? Does the shoreline feel my love? Am I allowing myself time to relax? Am I trying to heal something or make more space within myself?

Why do I always question everything? And why does no one else seem to ask these things out loud? Sometimes I think I’m doing life wrong. But I’ve never seen a version that feels entirely right, either.

The beach is a masterclass in breakdown and renewal. Chaos and order. Never the same twice. Watching as water slowly wears away the year rings of a tree’s afterlife.

People will find their own way, or follow someone else’s. The water always finds a path—the one of least resistance, though resistance is no match for water.

A family nearby laughs and scoffs. I don’t understand the language, but I know what they’re saying: This is it? This is the famous Glass Beach? Where’s the glass?

Oh, the irony—coming to Glass Beach, taking home the glass, and blaming the beach when there’s nothing left.

I felt that disappointment, too. Last night, I came and left unimpressed. But I came back today.

And this time, I stayed open. I listened. I watched. I let curiosity lead.

I looked through the eyes of my heart and turned my judgments and disappointments into something else. Something like gold.

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