Once, during our earlier visits to Maine, I decided to explore the beach in front of the cottages.  I strolled, at low tide, toward the westward end of the cove, and, after walking less than a quarter mile, came upon an unusual rock formation.  It was actually a small promontory of rocks that had been hollowed out by the sea so that it had a large hole in the middle.

It was not really a spectacular find, but, when I went back to the cottage, I made a big deal out of it.  I told Kate, who was then about twelve or thirteen years old, that I had found something really neat, so she set out with me on what was to be the first "pilgrimage to the Holy Rock."  On the way, I made up stories and myths.  Every bit of flotsam and jetsam that we found on the way (whether it was a broken bottle or twisted piece of metal) became an "old Indian artifact," and we created an elaborate story about an "old Indian teahouse" that was now submerged in the waters of Salisbury Cove near the Holy Rock.  (I get incurably silly when I'm in Maine.)  En route to the Holy Rock, we must traverse three yucky areas created by three pipes that empty water onto the beach (I really don't want to know what they're dumping).  These we dubbed "The Three Yuckies," part of the challenges one had to overcome as a pilgrim to the Holy Rock.  (Grandson Jeremy would refer to them as "waterfalls" when he made the pilgrimage this year, an understandable mistake from a four-year-old raised in a desert climate.)

Kate and I made the pilgrimage again this year, this time accompanied by the three boys.  Although we learned only this year that the place is actually called Star Point (because the hole is star-shaped, sort of), it will always be Holy Rock to us – and, one would hope, to the little pilgrims who came to share this beloved, if wacky, tradition.

 
Jeremy (left), Christopher, and Matthew with Kate at the Holy Rock.